


From the Ashes

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, hallucination Lucifer, non-explicit mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 13:18:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16833391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: With Bobby gone Dean heads to Roman Enterprises looking for revenge. He finds something very different there instead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is because [Castiel is Phoenix!](http://littlehollyleaf.livejournal.com/452792.html) (and I am ridiculous).

The office block is so mindlessly corporate it makes Dean want to puke. It feels like his personality is being leeched away just by stepping through the revolving glass doors and all the suited employees hurrying past him blur together into a hive of faceless drones.

It makes his skin crawl.

And that's without knowing the place is run by monsters.

A quick glance round the expansive lobby with it's pyramid-shaped water feature stretching up three floors, shining chrome flooring and artfully positioned potted plants tells him he's already been spotted by at least five security cameras and three guards. Not counting the eyes on him during his walk up the path outside.

But screw it. This is all or nothing. It either works, or -

It doesn't.

He walks purposely up to the front desk and leans across, folding his arms over the marble surface.

The young, bespectacled secretary on the other side finishes tapping something onto his computer and turns Dean's way. His eyes widen behind his glasses, pupils expanding inky black. Shock. But not fear. This guy's one of them then. Maybe everyone here is. Hell, they could be running the whole company for all Dean knows. Sam is gonna be so freaking mad when he comes back from his research session and realises Dean's scrapped all his hard work at finding out the truth behind Roman Enterprises and the best way to infiltrate in favour of marching in through the front door.

By then it won't matter though of course. And whatever happens, Sammy will get over it. He's strong that way. Stronger than Dean's ever been.

"I need to see the Boss," Dean says, meeting the eye of the creature pretending to be the kid dead on. He holds the look without flinching, a numbing calm settling over him. This is it. Make or break.

It could all fall apart right now and that would be the end of it, but Dean doesn't feel afraid.

He doesn't feel much of anything.

"Um..." the kid starts, reaching for the telephone on his left. He glances at the panel beside the dial. All the lines are lit up like a Christmas tree, blinking fast enough to cause a seizure. His hand hovers over the intercom button. "Do you have an appointment?"

Dean rolls his eyes, hearing his father's voice in his head. It's all about confidence, Dean. If you believe it, they believe it.

"No. I'm just here like this to make a fashion statement," he snaps, waving a hand up and down his torso. The kid creature flinches at the tone and Dean presses his advantage. "Of course I have an appointment. New plan in the works. Only a few of us are in on it. Just tell me where he's at, I'll meet him there."

"I really should... call him first," the kid stammers. "Let him know you're here. But..."

He glances back at the flashing lights.

"Let me guess," Dean interrupts. "Conference call?" He leans closer, softening his expression so he's less 'impatient superior' and more 'brother in arms.' "You don't wanna interrupt one of those. Trust me. I'll wait for him upstairs. I'm kind of early anyway." He flashes a grin and adds, "The others will be here any minute."

The mention of others seems to give the story just the right touch of credulity, easing the secretary back into his seat.

"Okay," he nods at Dean. "Third floor. Room 42. There's a coffee room a couple of doors down where you can wait."

Dean's grin moves up a notch and he pats the edge of the counter.

"Thanks, man."

He brazens through a full elevator ride all the way up. Makes it there in less than twenty minutes.

A couple of those inside actually look scared at first, which is gratifying. But then the insanity of the real Dean Winchester walking, alone, into a nest of leviathans sinks in and their assumptions switch, the change evident on their faces when fear turns to flat smiles and awkward looks away. It's the kind of reaction that, on a group of genuine men and women, Dean might have called pity.

Not that _all_ are as sympathetic of their supposed brother's plight. Most of the ones upstairs shoot him wry smirks as he passes, the transparent sense of 'rather you than me, sucker' coming across loud and clear.

Then Dean's right there. Room 42. And through the window he can see the dick he's come here for. Richard Roman. Or rather, his stand in, since they've got to assume there was a _real_ Dick at some point. All other leviathan IDs have checked out so far.

Dean has to concede the guy's playing the part well. Just then he's at the head of a long table with a Bluetooth contraption in his ear, simultaneously addressing a group of about twenty others while taking a long-distance call on the miniature device. Every so often he gestures to a chart of some kind projected on the wall behind him and the others in the room nod and hum, some of them taking notes in neatly-bound folders. It looks every bit your average office meeting, full of soulless dickwads in suits so sharp you're surprised the cuffs haven't slit their wrists yet.

They could be talking profit margins or net growth or some shit like that.

In fact, they _could_ be talking that. The stuff he and Sam have dug up on the company while trying to make some semblance of sense out of the scribblings Bobby made before he... Well, it all suggests old Dicky _is_ working hard on keeping the business afloat.

But his methods give a whole new meaning to 'devouring the competition' that's for sure.

Dean slips a hand in his jacket pocket and fingers the warm, metallic curve of the flask inside. No holy water lining it today. Instead it's full to the brim with bright blue, borax-filled detergent. Not quite as readily available as salt, but common enough.

It's nice of monsters, Dean thinks, to make themselves vulnerable to such everyday things.

Then he thinks fuck, he's going to enjoy watching this guy burn.

There's even a chance that taking him out might somehow destroy the others as well. That's the latest theory Sam's been chewing over, in between the research and battling of inner voices and avoiding sleep. Separating the head incapacitates an individual leviathan. So if you separate the head of the Head...

In any case, taking out the leader will put the others in chaos. Hopefully enough of it to make them easy pickings for any hunter that stumbles across them from then on. Dean's got enough firsthand experience to know how that works. Hell, if even _angels_ couldn't handle -

Dean steps to the side and leans back against the wall by the door. Waiting. Trying not to think of anything.

It's bad enough this place reeks of Sandover, with Zachariah's smug face in every corner. Which, of course, has Dean thinking of bloody sigils and white light, Zachariah's arrogant smirk contorting in rage as he's banished, leaving Dean with earnest blue eyes and an unexpected ally. An unexpected friend.

But now, damn it, he's turned his thoughts to civil wars and betrayals. The devastating cold in those eyes when his friend tried to fill the void of leadership back when Heaven lost its top dog.

He wishes he still hated Cas for that. For all of it. It would be so much easier.

Instead he's a fucking mess, emotions all over the place. A tight, tangled, fucked up twist of anger and pain that he's liable to break out in a sweat over even the thought of unravelling. And what's the point anyway? It's not like there's anything worth saving underneath it all.

Dean's not stupid enough to think this suicide run will make up for all the crap he's pulled and suffered over the years, even if it does work out for the best. Going out in a blaze of glory won't give his pathetic existence higher meaning all of a sudden. But it's better than nothing and there's nothing else Dean can think to _do_.

He's ruined, lost or losing pretty much everyone and everything that matters at this point and Bobby... Bobby's the last straw. The tough, usually so resilient, hunter's prone form laid bare across that hospital bed, full of tubing and with that droning flatline stretching out to infinity on the machine beside him is a constant waking nightmare. Vivid behind Dean's lids every time he closes his eyes.

But not for Sam.

Sam's as devastated as Dean's ever seen him, but he's handling it. He's _good_. Despite all the shit. Despite being dragged back a couple of lifetimes ago from what might have been paradise for all Dean knows, forced into a living hell that led him straight to the real thing all because his older brother was too selfish to leave him in peace. Despite all that - Sam's functioning.

If they can just take out this latest brand of evil, just get the world back on track one last time, Dean thinks his brother has a real chance at building a life for himself. The kind he always wanted. Or the hunting kind, whatever. Sam's more than capable of both. Maybe even together if he sets his mind to it, because if anyone can swing that it's Sam. He always was the smart one of the family.

Dean was the one destined to be the screw up.

Which is why he's decided to quit while he's ahead. Make one last ditch effort to give his brother the future he deserves and leave him to it.

Before he does something to screw things up again.

Before he destroys the one good thing in life he has left.

Dean grips the flask in his pocket tighter. Tells himself to focus on the now.

Wait until this meeting's over.

Follow Dick.

Chop off his head.

Carry it outside and bury it in the biggest vat of cement possible.

Try not to get eaten along the way.

He likes this plan. It's simple. Easy to remember.

"Hey, bad luck on the face, dude."

The voice and accompanying smack on the shoulder make Dean startle. So much for staying focused.

The guy talking is tall with close-cropped black hair and a goatee so small you'd be forgiven for mistaking it as lint and trying to brush it away. He's giving Dean that same 'shit I'm glad I'm not you' expression all the others have and Dean just shrugs, playing along.

"Thanks," he mutters.

"So the Boss is running another doppelganger scenario, huh?" the guy continues and Dean groans inwardly. Great, a chatty ancient evil. Just what he needs. "Well, let's hope for your sake they've worked out the kinks this time."

Mini Goatee chuckles and Dean scowls. It seems appropriate.

"Hey, lighten up," the guy presses, unfazed. "The Winchester look has its advantages. I hear the angel's a whole lot more fun with a Dean-suit on."

Dean's half turned back to the window in the door, watching as the meeting inside appears to be drawing to a close, everyone packing their stuff away. His mind's busy running through the best way to tackle Dick - whether he should sneak in now and hope they're left alone together, or tail him through the building for a bit and try and trap him in another part. It takes a few seconds for the words to filter through.

"Wait. What?" he says, snapping his head round.

"Oh, yeah," Mini Goatee nods back, grinning. "They say he screams loudest when it's his Righteous Man cutting him up."

It's like they've just switched from English to the kind of gibberish language only giants dorks and Sam understand. Elvish or Klingon or Welsh. Some shit like that. Dean can hear the words, he can even make out different syllables, but they _don't.make.sense_.

Fortunately, like most of the leviathans they've come across so far, this one is too far up his own ass to notice anything amiss with Dean's vacant stare.

"Hey, you should go down when you've got a minute," he continues. "I mean, you look really tense man. You could use a quick workout to loosen you up. Especially if you're meeting the Boss."

Dean opens his mouth, but nothing comes out of it. His mind's too busy fixating on _angel_ and _Righteous Man_. In the corner of his eye he sees Dick standing up and switching off the projector, turning to make a final address to the assembled group.

He's right there. The soulless thing responsible for ripping Dean's father away from him a second time. The monster Dean's come to think of as personally responsible for eating his best friend up from the inside.

Right there.

...but this guy said _angel_.

"You know what," Dean starts, making a snap decision. "You're right. I could do with a workout. He, uh... he still in the same place?"

The leviathan's grin widens, inhumanly wide, and the glint in his eye turns downright wicked.

"Yup, still down there in the basement."

The basement.

There's a shuffling and scraping sound from behind the door - chairs being pushed aside. Then the irregular beat of twenty footsteps crossing the room.

Dean turns and walks away, heading back to the elevator.

"Hey!" Mini Goatee calls after him. "Let me know what it's like. If it really is all that, I might try Dean Winchester on for size myself!"

\---

The basement is the polar opposite to the rest of the building. It's dark and dirty, the walls and floor bare and coated in dust and cobwebs. Unadorned pipes run along the walls and ceiling like rusty orange vines and there's a skittering noise as the elevator doors ping open. Skittering sometimes means poltergeist, of course, but Dean's aware of the subtleties enough to know rats when he hears them.

There are no meticulously engraved signs embedded in the walls for direction down here, so Dean picks a path at random.

It's after about ten minutes pacing down the gloomy corridor that he realises what else is different. No CCTV.

Huh.

Even respectable monsters need their privacy, Dean supposes.

He turns a corner.

And collides with a six-pack-shaped brick wall.

"Hey, watch it!" a gruff voice mutters somewhere above him.

Dean tips his head back and finds himself under the glare of a large, bald, stocky African American. The way his abs and shoulders bulge against his shirt, black tie fitting like a choker round his trunk of a neck, makes Dean think he'd be more comfortable in a sumo outfit than corporate gear.

The man narrows his eyes and Dean curses to himself. What's he _doing_ down here? He could have taken a machete to Dick by now, but instead he's going to be chowder for a poor man's Samuel L. Jackson. What a waste.

Then the guy - leviathan - throws his head back and laughs, slapping Dean so hard on the shoulder Dean staggers under the pressure.

"Ha! Good one!" the guy says, nodding approvingly. "Me and Joey tried the Winchester trick last week. It was a riot. Finished up a pretty vigorous session just now, so you won't get much out of him. But I'm sure you'll find a way to make him scream somehow."

The leviathan lifts an eyebrow and nudges Dean companionably in the ribs. Dean tries hard to turn his grimace from the pain into a smile.

"Ha, yeah..." he answers, hoping his voice isn't as high-pitched as it sounds.

That's when he notices the rag. The guy's had it balled up in one hand until now, but as he sidesteps away from Dean he grips the cotton in both hands and rubs it over his fingers. Smears of crimson transfer from the monster's skin to the fabric.

Somewhere in the pit of Dean's self-imposed numbness a sense of horror and revulsion begins to stir. And somewhere beneath that, the small, fragile beginnings of hope.

"Anyway, have a good one."

The leviathan lifts a hand in goodbye and walks away. Once he's out of sight round the corner Dean takes a breath and turns around.

There's a door on the left a couple of feet away.

It's metal - thick stainless steel by the looks and bolted on the outside.

Dean approaches it slowly, like he's afraid it might rush him if he makes any sudden moves. Or fade into nothing like a mirage.

He makes out a small, grimy window at the top once he's close enough, but it's pitch black inside and he can't see a thing. There's only one way to find out what's in there.

Hesitantly, Dean reaches out and pulls back the bolt across the door.

It's heavy, but it slides through the latches with the ease of frequent use.

He pulls the door back and steps inside.

It's dark. The dull glow from the corridor does exactly nothing to help penetrate the gloom and once the door clunks shut there's nothing but the black.

Black, with a metallic tang in the air Dean is all too intimately familiar with.

Blood. And lots of it.

There's a series of clinking sounds across from him, each one following the other in a slow, almost sluggish, pattern. Chain links being pulled and twisted. There's no threat to the sound though. If anything it seems to be moving further away from him.

Dean reaches back with a hand, palming the wall. He falters for a moment when his fingers slip through something wet and sticky but finally locates a light switch.

He has to turn away from the glare when he flicks the thing and a hot, yellow, lightbulb-shaped burn flares behind his eyelids to match the bulb dangling from the ceiling. After some heavy blinking Dean's eyes adjust enough so he's no longer seeing spots and he glances back.

The light throws the figure backing against the wall into stark relief.

His clothes are in tatters, nothing but dirty rags that provide little modesty for the thin and shaking body they purport to cover. His hair is matted, plastered to one side of his face by something crusted black. Dean wonders about congealed goo, but the crimson oozing from the myriad of cuts and bite marks elsewhere across the pale skin puts paid to that idea.

There's a gash across one eye that drips down, collecting over the eyelash as the figure looks over. It obscures the colour and Dean can't make it out in the other eye. No sign of blue.

He doesn't need it anyway.

"Cas."

He can barely choke out the name, hating himself for the absolute joy rushing through him as his lips struggle with the syllable. The guy's hands and feet are chained to the wall for fuck's sake. He's _bleeding_. And god knows what else those Purgatory bastards have been doing, how long they've been keeping him here, but -

Alive.

It's _Cas_ and he's fucking _alive_.

What he looks like doesn't matter, that fact alone has just made him the holy fucking grail, the Stanley Cup and the lost city of Atlantis rolled into one.

Joy swerves abruptly to vertigo, like the ground holding Dean up has been pulled far far away. It takes everything he has not to stagger from the shift.

Cas looks at him. Scowls. Then turns his head and spits on the ground.

Dean can't tell if the patch of red coating the stone is a result of the act or if it was there already. There's plenty of patches and smears and even the occasional handprint about the place after all.

"I'm so sorry..." The voice is raw. Bitter. But it still has that irrefutable texture of gravel and hard liquor that's unique to Castiel. Dean feels faint hearing it after so long. After months convincing himself he was never going to hear it again. "I have reached my quota of torture for today. Come back tomorrow."

Speechless hardly covers it. Dean's not sure he'll manage another word ever again. He's too scared the slightest sound might break the spell and see his angel double over, lips curled with manic laughter, black tendrils creeping up his neck like last time.

But no tendrils appear. No laughter. No disgusting black oozing over Cas' skin.

Instead, Cas simply ignores Dean in favour of very carefully stretching his arms out one at a time, taking advantage of the light Dean's provided to assess the damage to them. He's stoic as always as he rubs his hands over the broken skin, pressing down with his fingertips to see if the hurt goes beneath the surface. But his left wrist, partly obscured by the thick cuff binding it to his chains, must be broken or something because when Cas touches it he flinches, a sharp hiss sounding round the room, drawn through pursed lips and clenched teeth.

A flash of chunky black hands wiping themselves clean passes through Dean's mind and he has the irrational urge run out and track that leviathan down, pound him to a pulp.

Instead he moves forward, blotting out the red and black finger paint on the walls and focusing on Cas' face.

"Cas, it's me," he says, voice croaky, like it's been months since he used it last not minutes.

Castiel doesn't react at all, still gently prodding his wrist and twisting it under the cuff until his tense expression softens. Dean can see in the twist of the angel's mouth and the way his eyes squint at the corners that the pain's still there, but whatever Cas did has made it the least it can be.

"Cas," he tries again and he's close enough this time to make out the shine in Castiel's eyes. Close enough to see it dim.

"Please..." Castiel says, and suddenly the defiance from seconds ago is gone. Castiel's voice is barely a whisper. He's pleading. "Be someone else. You can cut me as deep as you desire and I won't scream, I promise." His eyes flick up. "Or I will. As loud as you wish. Just be someone else."

Anger would be a comfort, but Dean can't seem to find any. He wants to rage against the monsters who've driven Cas to this, who've reduced the angel who took defiance further than the Devil, whose arrogance carried him a few brief moments higher than god, to this broken, begging existence.

But what he feels more than anything at seeing his friend brought so low is pity.

Pity and an awful, cold sense of guilt and regret. Shame, however unjust, at having left Cas to such a fate all this time, that he hadn't thought to check somehow if he was still alive. And mingled within it all, the nagging suspicion that he played a part in leading Cas here as much as anything.

"I..." Dean finds he has to pry his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth before he can continue. "Cas. It's me, I swear. I... I'm gonna get you outta here."

Cas drops his head with a sigh.

"Of course," he mutters, resigned.

He leans back against the soiled wall and slides down it, chains pooling in his lap. Dean glances up at the bolts above Cas' head that hold the chains for his wrists, fearful of the length running out and yanking Cas' arms up and above him. But the chains are long enough for Cas to rest his hands on his knees. Now, anyway. Dean sees various holes further up the wall where he presumes the chains have been attached before, designed to keep Castiel stretched out, muscles tense.

The sinew is easier to cut that way, Dean remembers.

"You will free me from my bonds," Castiel starts, voice dull. "Lead me down the corridor to the elevator. Then, perhaps, we will very fortunately avoid any guards along the offices upstairs and reach the front door. Perhaps this time you will take me through it before revealing your true colours. Perhaps there will be a group of you waiting on the other side, ready to laugh at my humiliation. I'm sure it will be most satisfying for you."

 _There's_ the anger, bubbling up Dean's gut and clenching his jaw until he's aching from the tension. Fucking _bastards!_ How many times had they pulled this trick, for no other reason than because they _could?_ When he gets Cas out of here, he's gonna slaughter every last one of those sons of bitches!

He kneels down and tries to meet Cas' eye but Cas won't look at him. Dean doesn't blame him.

"Look," he says. "You've no reason to believe me, but this time... it's just, it's different. I..." Dean shakes his head. What could he possibly say? "Let's just get these off, okay?"

He reaches in his jacket and pulls out a couple of lock picks. Just cos he wasn't planning on making it out of the complex didn't mean he hadn't come prepared. The cuffs holding Cas are freaking _medieval_ , it shouldn't take him long to break them open.

It's quiet as Dean works, the scrape and click of metal on metal and the occasional sigh from Cas the only sounds in the room. Cas doesn't hinder Dean, but he doesn't help either. He just sits there, passive.

Until Dean shifts to get a better angle.

"You even replicated the knife?" Cas asks suddenly.

The question puzzles Dean until he realises Cas is focused on where his jacket has pulled back, the hilt of Ruby's demon-killing knife jutting prominently out of his belt.

"Nope," he answers. "That's the original, Cas."

Cas meets his eye for a second, then turns his gaze away.

Dean can tell Cas doesn't believe him and he tries not to think about it as he gets back to work.

He's picked the cuff over Castiel's bad wrist to unlock first and when the mechanism finally gives and the metal pulls apart the movement puts a pressure on the joint that makes Castiel bite down on his lower lip. A soft moan rumbles in the back of Cas' throat and Dean reacts on instinct, dropping the chain and putting his picks to one side so he can grip Castiel's forearm in both hands. A quick brush along the bruised and bleeding spot tells him that yup, it's broken. He can feel the spiky edges of snapped bone poking beneath the skin.

Holding the wrist firmly in one hand, Dean uses his other to feel inside his pockets. Eventually he comes across a grubby handkerchief and ties it as best he can about the wound. It won't offer much support, but it's better than nothing.

There's another low moan as Dean finishes the knot.

"Sorry," he mutters, glancing up to make sure it's nothing worse than the pain of the makeshift bandage Cas is reacting to.

The angel's expression is already relaxing by the time Dean's eyes scan over him so, satisfied his friend has no other immediate concerns, Dean picks up his tools again and moves to the other cuff. He lowers Cas' arm slowly and carefully into the angel's lap once that hand is free and moves to the chains on Cas' feet.

He can feel the angel's eyes boring into him now, but Dean doesn't mind. It's not like it's _new_.

"I commend you," Cas says when Dean reaches the final lock. "You've been the best so far. I might almost believe your compassion genuine."

Dean swallows but doesn't look up. The mindlessness of the last few minutes has proven somewhat therapeutic and he's loathe to break from that and start thinking again.

Just focus on the twists and the clicks.

He can deal with the other crap later.

"Does it please you? This pretence?" Cas continues, shooting Dean's intentions straight to hell. No passing Go. No two hundred dollars. "Does it make you proud, tricking me? Or is it simply a way to pass the time? Nothing but a game?" Castiel breathes out through his nose - a snort of derision. "That's all any of this is to your kind, isn't it? You think I'm nothing, that the people of this world are nothing. Just pawns for you to use and discard..." Cas takes a breath, then stutters it out in a dark chuckle that makes Dean think of Croats and amphetamines. His hand slips and he's forced to start his lock-picking over again. "You will not find the Winchesters so when they _kill you_. And make no mistake. They will. They will eradicate every last one of you. They will not rest until your whole race is destroyed. You will _never_ be safe from them."

There's a cold, angry certainty to Castiel's words that makes Dean's chest ache.

"That's a tall order," he rasps. "They're only thre-" He swallows hard. "Two. Only two. And they're human. Weak..."

Cas shakes his head and when Dean looks up his sees a thin smile on his friend's face. Against the macabre backdrop of blood splatter and the bruises and cuts over Castiel's white, clammy skin the expression looks horrific.

"They fought the _Devil_ and were victorious. All of Heaven and all of Hell fell before them. _You_ are the ones who are nothing," Cas answers, full of grim determination. "You can beat me and break me and slice me open a million times but you will _not_ break my faith. I... I thought they were less, once. That I was better. Could be better. Your very existence in this world proves me wrong. I will not doubt them again."

Hands shaking now, Dean is forced to stop and hold himself still.

To think that, after everything, after their friendship brought him exile, made him a fugitive from his own family, stripped him of his powers and led him to his death twice over - to think that Castiel should come out of all that still holding Dean and his brother in esteem seems so tragically unfair. And while Cas had been using his loyalty to withstand endless bloody horrors, had only his belief that Dean was out there fighting to keep him going, Dean had come here ready to give up that fight, to end it all and let the world burn.

Dean makes himself a promise then and there. Not any more.

He's been running low on reasons to keep fighting lately it's true, but now, out of the blue, he's stumbled across one again. Bobby had told him to take whatever he could and this is something all right. Today Cas is his reason.

Tomorrow... well he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Taking a breath Dean makes the final twist and the cuff on Castiel's right ankle drops off. Dean puts his tools away and hooks an arm under Cas' shoulder, pulling them up together.

For a couple of seconds Cas is a dead weight against him. Then the angel moves like lightening, slamming Dean back against the wall and snatching the knife from Dean's belt. Castiel's eyes sparkle, cold and unfeeling, as he holds the blade to Dean's throat.

"Every one of you comes in here arrogant and overconfident," Cas hisses, leaning in close. "You think you will be the one to break me but you are _wrong_. I will not be broken. I _will not_. Now you will listen. I don't care what punishment you threaten me with, I have borne them _all_ , so you will change yourself until you are a stranger to me or I will sever your head from your body as many times as my strength allows me. Do not mistake me. I know it will not kill you. I know I cannot succeed in this indefinitely. But I can delay you for hours, and I know your 'boss' does not appreciate tardiness. So if you wish to keep in his good graces you will _change_. _Now._ "

Cas presses the knife down and Dean feels the serrated edge break his skin. It's the emptiness in Castiel's eyes that pains him the most though. He's never seen Cas like this. Bitter, yes, and angry, disapproving, distant. But not shut down. Even in those early days when being a soldier had been all Cas knew there had always been _something_ in those eyes that told Dean there was more to this guy than his orders.

Now there's just a chilling absence. Like his friend has taken every part of himself, everything that makes him _him_ , and buried it away.

It's a classic coping mechanism. The most efficient way to withstand torture. Dean learnt it well back in the Pit and thinks Sam must have too because he sees the occasional glimmer of it in his brother's face from time to time. That sudden blankness that tells him Lucifer, or whatever, is getting too much so Sam's stepping out for a while, taking a vacation from his head until it's safe to come back.

But if he thought it hurt seeing that in his brother, seeing it in Cas is breaking him up inside. Because though Dean fought it as hard as he could, that kind of tragedy was always on the cards for Sam as much as it had been for Dean himself. But Cas - Cas was the one out of all of them who _shouldn't_ have had to endure that. The one part of their fucked up lives that through it all Dean had somehow believed could stay pure.

And Cas worked so fucking hard at finding himself, leaving Heaven's Stepford regime and living for himself. Sure, he'd screwed it up, but at least he'd tried, which is more than Dean ever has.

That Cas should have been forced to unlearn that independence is like a double loss.

Yet, at the same time, Dean is proud. Proud that Cas has at least found a way to keep his strength. That he hasn't just rolled over and let those leviathan bastards break him like Dean had been about to let them do.

Cas tightens his grip on the hilt of the knife and the edge scrapes down Dean's neck, reminding Dean of the precariousness of his situation. Part of him almost welcomes this, thinks it might be poetic - being ganked by the same angel who'd raised his sorry ass. But the thought of what the sight of his decidedly human corpse will do to Castiel's already fragile state of mind is more than enough to quash those suicidal plans even as they form.

"Okay, okay," Dean gasps, feeling the press of the knife with each undulation up and down his throat.

He tries to resist Cas' hold but the press of his friend's arms is hard as stone, broken wrist notwithstanding. It's more than human that's for sure, which makes Dean think Cas might actually have some of his mojo hidden away there, even if healing seems to be out at the moment. He certainly has more strength than he'd been letting on while Dean was working on his cuffs anyway, the faker.

But angel powers or no, Cas is still hurt bad and Dean doesn't want to have to add to those injuries if he can help it. He needs another tack and as another scrape stings his throat Dean kicks himself for not thinking of the obvious solution sooner. Sam's right, his head's really not in the game right now.

"You want me to change. Okay. Sure thing," he says, playing for time. "Just, just humour me first, alright? Just in this one thing." Cas holds the knife still, listening. "Look at the knife you're holding. Just look at it. You don't even have to let it go, just look."

Since Cas doesn't immediately decapitate him Dean assumes he's considering the request. A moment later Castiel flicks his eyes down then back up.

The angel's expression is unchanged at first, save for a slight raise of his left eyebrow as if to say 'there, we're done.' But then what he must have seen starts to dawn on him and Castiel's hardened expression grows slack. He looks down properly, eyebrows drawing together. This opens the barely crusted cut above his right eye again so a drop of blood wells up at the corner. Castiel doesn't seem to notice.

"You've been here for months, right Cas?" Dean prompts. "You... you've fought god knows how many of these fuckers. So tell me. They ever bleed red? Even once?"

For the longest time Castiel just stares. Then, with agonising slowness, he pulls the blade away.

Dean knows he could take Cas now. A quick twist of his arm would be enough to wrench the weapon away from him. But he doesn't want that. He wants Cas to figure it out. Wants to see his reaction. To see if there's enough of his friend left _to_ react, or if this tortured Cas even cares that Dean Winchester is here in person this time.

Castiel holds the blade to his face and watches the traces of crimson glint off the metal. He runs a thumb along the flat edge and peers at the smudge of red collected by his skin, face a mask of concentration. His eyes track back to Dean, finding the cut, and his free hand reaches out.

The cut isn't deep and doesn't even sting when Cas rubs two fingers along the wound. But Dean tenses anyway. Waiting.

He knows the exact moment the truth hits because Castiel gasps, loud and deep, and snatches his hand away like he's been stung.

"Oh god," Castiel breathes, stepping back. "Oh god..." He looks up then away, like a child caught in a lie, scared and ashamed. All he needs is the glow of flames on his cheeks and he's back in that ring of fire and while the memory burns Dean is glad of the expression because it means the Cas he knows is still there. "I thought - I didn't -"

"It's okay," Dean tells him, stepping forward. But Castiel jerks his head from side to side, waving his hands. Since one hand is still holding the knife this brings the blade dangerously close to Dean's face, forcing him back.

"No. No it isn't, I could have -"

Cas' carefully blank mask crumbles away and dark, panicked lines etch across his face in its stead. It's like he's spent all this time only waiting for Dean to come and bring him back to himself, but now Dean's here for real he's unprepared. As if waiting was the only thing keeping him grounded and now he no longer has that he's untethered. A kite without a string.

"I could have killed you - I would have -" His breathing turns shallow and his arms tremble. He starts to lift his hands to his face, seeming to have forgotten this will bring the pointed edge of a weapon straight to him.

" _Cas_ ," Dean snaps, frightened now. "I'm telling you man, it's okay."

If Cas hears him he doesn't acknowledge it.

"I'm sorry - I'm -" he stammers, still refusing to look at Dean and still waving the knife about unchecked.

He should have expected this, Dean realises. When you've conditioned yourself to the kind of pain Cas must have suffered these last few months, when you've hardened yourself to it until you can't imagine anything else, a change of any kind is bound to shake you.

"I should have - I -"

The easiest way to break the hysteria would be to slap the guy, but Dean's not sure that would work on an angel, even a de-powered one. In any case, the knife is stopping him getting close enough.

But if he lets Cas carry on this way he could end up seriously hurting himself.

" _Cas!_ Hey, hey!" he tries again. No dice.

Instead Cas presses the ball of his knife-welding hand to his temple, the blade skimming his hairline.

Okay, that's it.

Lunging forward with Cas mid-babble Dean manages to grip the arm holding the knife in one hand and stretch it out wide, keeping the weapon far away from both of them. He uses his other hand to hold Cas' shoulder. His fingers are curled tight enough to bruise and he hates it, but there's no other way, it's going to take some pain to get through to his friend here.

"Stop!" He dips his head until Cas is forced to look at him. "Cas, just stop."

Cas doesn't even struggle, he holds still at once, eyes fixed on Dean's. His gaze is wide and wet and, oh god, so lost.

"It's okay," Dean tells him again, voice hushed. The tone for a feral child, or a wounded animal.

Castiel falls silent, save for the deep in and out of his breath, and they hold that way for Dean doesn't know how long. Enough for his fingers to start cramping. But he doesn't let go and he doesn't look away. If this is what it takes to get through to his friend then he'll wait it out as long as he has to.

" _Dean..._ " Cas whispers finally and with reverence, like Dean's the eighth wonder, the answer to every unsolved mystery of the universe, or both.

His body relaxes and Dean doesn't know what happens next exactly, just that all of a sudden he has the knife back in his own hand and is using his other to pull Cas close, gripping him fiercely about the shoulders while Castiel locks one arm round Dean's waist and reaches up with the other, fingers clasping the back of Dean's neck and holding Dean against him like he never means to let go.

"It's okay," Dean murmurs again as Cas shudders and buries his face in the dip of Dean's collarbone, uncertain if the assurance is for Cas or himself at this stage. "I got you, it's okay." He closes his eyes, wrapping his arms tighter round his friend and pretending, just for a moment, that the worst is over and they're already out. That there are no leviathans out for their blood and that Sam and Bobby are waiting for them just outside the door. "It's okay."

Slowly the tremors wracking Castiel's body begin to calm and he lifts his head enough to speak.

"I can't believe you're here. I thought I would never see you again."

Dean opens his eyes and nods, sad to lose his fantasy but at the same time glad of the hot, persistent truth of Castiel's breath on his skin.

"Tell me about it."

The embrace must be painful for Cas, whose body feels thinner and more fragile by the second. But he doesn't try and pull away and Dean doesn't force him.

"I... I would rather not," Cas starts, hesitant. "Tell you -"

The familiarity of the misunderstanding actually puts a smile on Dean's face.

"It's just an expression, Cas."

"Oh."

There's a pause. Then Cas shifts his hand from Dean's neck, wiping his face with the dangling threads passing for a sleeve over his wrist.

"How did you find me?" he asks.

"Well, uh..."

_I was trying to off myself and..._

"Doesn't matter," Dean answers, easing the two of them apart. "Let's get out of here. Can you walk?"

He has hands on both Castiel's shoulders, knife jutting up in his left, because he's half afraid his friend will collapse without the support, despite having been successfully threatened by him moments before. Seriously though, the guy's nothing but skin and bone, and at least one of those is snapped, how the fuck is he functioning?

Cas doesn't object to the hold, just purses his lips and considers the question.

"If I can have a few minutes I will be capable," he replies.

"Like, you'll heal? You can still - I mean you're..." Dean trails off. He and tact never have been on the best of terms.

Fortunately, Cas and tact hail from separate solar systems.

"Am I still an angel?" Cas completes, blunt and to the point and not offended by the question in the least. "I don't know. I... since they brought me here I can't... I can't feel my wings..." He stops, a familiar blankness taking him over, and Dean has half a mind to hug him again. "But conversely," Cas continues after a moment, composed. "Were I simply human I would have been unable to sustain the injuries inflicted upon me for as long as I have and I would, no doubt, have perished some time ago."

The conclusion of this matter-of-fact speech has Dean digging his fingers into Cas' shoulders in a way he knows must bite but he can't help it. He needs some kind of outlet for the horror of the thing better than the cry rising up his throat. Cas has been alive all this time, but even so, _he could have died_ down here. And Dean would have lost him twice over. Three times. Four. The only reason he hasn't is, what? Luck of the draw? Cas' angel ability to withstand more than a human just happening to stick around while the rest of his mojo hadn't? And if Dean hadn't found him today, what then? Would his body eventually have succumbed to the torture, his heart giving out and taking all that was left of Cas with it?

This was too close, way too close, to another family tragedy.

"Right..." Dean manages. "Well, take your time. We got a few minutes."

He's almost proud. It sounds very much like he has a plan.

Cas certainly seems to think so, giving a sombre nod back before taking a step away from Dean's support and focusing on standing straight without swaying.

"Where are Sam and Bobby?" Cas asks after a moment.

It's such an obvious question Dean can't believe how much it blindsides him, seizing his throat up and turning him cold. When his dad died he'd had almost a year of searching for the man to prepare for the loss, he was ready to shut down over it. But this... he can't even hear the name without...

"Sam's, um..." he tries as he slips the knife back in his jeans. "He's..." He turns away, forcing out a laugh. He thinks maybe if he keeps it light he can do this. "Well, wherever he is he's thinking up some pretty creative ways to rip me a new one by now for being so reckless... And... And Bobby's... He's..."

Dean stops, like Cas before when he'd mentioned his wings. He has to. Because if he tries to say anything else he's going to lose it and they've got a lobby full of leviathan to get through yet.

He doesn't need to say more in any case because it seems Castiel hears the rest in his tone, a soft 'no...' reaching Dean in response.

"Was it -?" Cas starts, then cuts himself off.

While Dean appreciates the attempt to drop the subject, he finds the following silence a hell of a lot worse and spits out a reply anyway.

"Yeah. Their _Dick_ of a boss." That helps as much as anything has the last few days. Focusing the blame. Fixating on something he can work up some anger towards instead of being crushed under the weight of... of the other stuff. "And he - he fucking _shot_ him. With a gun, you know? Right - right in the head... He's upstairs right now. I was this close to him, this fucking close."

Dean's barely aware of the finger and thumb he's holding together. The world around him is blurring, swirling into a single image, then another. A bloody trucker's cap. And Dick Roman's face smirking at him through a limousine window.

"All I had to do was walk in there. I'd like to see him look so smug with a machete in his neck!"

"You didn't come for me."

It's spoken as fact not accusation, but Dean burns with the shame of it regardless. And it's worse when he turns because Castiel's expression is back to an empty slate, not angry or disappointed or even sad. Dean doesn't know whether to be apologetic, consoling or what.

"You came here for revenge," Castiel adds, voice as devoid of emotion as the rest of him.

"I... yeah. I mean. I didn't even know you were _alive_ , man. You went into that lake and... and that was it, you were gone. I found your... your fucking trenchcoat and..." Dean spares a thought for the battered coat, neatly wrapped up in the duffle he'd brought with him and left in the car he'd jacked to get here. He's been carting the damn thing around with him ever since he'd fished it out of the water, for god knows why. Luck maybe. Not that it had brought them any. But anyhow, he knew he couldn't come today without it. He wishes he could have brought his baby too, but at least this way she'll be safe at the garage Bobby stashed her in for him. The thought of Dick and his disciples getting their hands on her was far worse than the lack of a familiar wheel and worn upholstery on the drive down. "I couldn't believe it when I heard them talking about you upstairs."

Castiel continues his robotic stance for a beat. Then he blinks and shakes his head.

"Dean... you need to get out of here."

"Yeah," Dean nods. "Yeah. You good to go?"

"No, you misunderstand me. _You_ need to leave, Dean. Alone."

Dean frowns.

"What -?"

And then Castiel's rushing forward, eyes blazing with that righteous fury Dean knows so well.

"Do you have _any idea_ the danger you have placed yourself in?"

"Yeah, I -"

"If they find you here they will not hesitate to _kill you!_ Do you understand? And you are here, _alone_ , without back up, you -" Cas stops and gapes, as if Dean's stupidity is too vast to contemplate. "Leave now. The way you came. Before they realise."

"Cas, no. We're leaving together."

Cas turns away.

"You can't risk it."

"Well, I'm going to."

"Dean -"

" _No_ , Cas. You really think I'm gonna _leave you here_ so those sons of bitches can do fuck knows what? No! I can't do that."

"Yes, you can. You... you have no obligations towards me, Dean." Cas stills and drops his head and something about the curve of his shoulders, the way they droop, hunching him over, reads like defeat to Dean. "You do not need to risk yourself on my account. And if you feel a duty to, I absolve you of it."

Initial attempts to respond to this lead Dean through various goldfish impersonations before he settles on a standard -

"The _fuck_ , Cas?" He paces over and in front of his friend, wanting to spin Cas round by the shoulder but too wary of his condition to try. "What are you talking about 'duty' and 'obligation'? I'm trying to _help_ you here."

"Yes," Cas answers and his voice shakes on the word, eyes glistening as he looks up. "But Dean... Bobby is _dead?_ I know he was like a father to you, maybe more. And... and it's my fault. All of this. Bobby, the leviathans, it is _all_ because of me and my choices." Castiel takes a breath and holds Dean's gaze. "I would _not_ begrudge you, Dean, for leaving me here. On the contrary, I would respect you for it."

Dean stares at Cas, dumbfounded, mind whiting out. Cas is seriously asking him to... to _deliberately_... The whiteness grows hot and Dean moves without thinking, slamming Cas against the nearest wall and pinning him there. Cas cries out from the shock and the pain of it but Dean doesn't care.

"You fucking _dick_ ," Dean grinds out through clenched teeth. "You think that's how this works? That leaving you here, like some damn eye for an eye, will somehow make things right?"

"No..." Cas gasps, wincing under Dean's hold. "But there would... be some justice in it."

Even through the pain Cas is so unbelievably _sincere_. Dean has to resist the urge to smack his head against the brick.

" _Justice?!_ There's no _justice_ in you dying here, you -!" he yells. "All that means is that instead of losing a father, I'd have lost a father _and_ a friend. A friend I thought I'd already fucking..." Dean fists both hands in Castiel's pathetic excuse for a shirt, the fabric so thin he can feel his nails digging through it into his palms. A welcome sensation if it distracts from the memory of Castiel melting away in that reservoir and the gut-wrenching realisation that he was _really gone_ this time. "Fuck you, Cas! The last time I saw you, before those, those goddamn things took over, you told me, you _swore_ , you were gonna make things up to me. Did you mean that, or was it just another _lie?_ "

"Dean, I..." Cas is cowed now, flinching from Dean's harsh words. "Of course I meant it."

" _Good_ ," Dean growls back. "Because this is how you do it. You and me? We're gonna walk outta here and you're gonna fucking _live_ , you hear? No grand gestures, no sacrifices. You don't get to take the easy way out. I'm not gonna _let_ you." That this comes so soon after Dean's own attempt at a fatal escape from his troubles, the taste of hypocrisy rank and cloying in the back of his throat, only increases Dean's fury. "Do you understand me, Cas?" He spares Cas barely a moment before he's shaking the angel and repeating the question. " _Do you understand?!_ "

"I understand," Cas answers quickly.

The tone is one Dean knows well. It's the immediate response of someone long conditioned to offer compliance while under duress. He'd learnt to instil it in soul after soul once, making it as much a part of Hell as the agonised screams and the sobbing.

But it's not for here. _Never_ for here.

Chest heaving, Dean lets his fists uncurl, fingers shaking as he untangles them from Cas' clothes and steps back.

"Dean..." Cas says, stepping after him.

Dean thinks he should stop him. Apologise. But Cas is meeting his eye before he can find the words, holding them together until their breathing settles.

"I understand," Cas repeats, clearer this time, the words his own.

It's not enough, not anywhere near enough, to fixing things between them. It doesn't change the lies and mistakes and betrayals. But if the losses and the heartache and the cold, terrible numbness of the last few weeks have taught Dean anything, it's that life's too fucking short to let anything keep you from the people you care about.

Cas is _here_. That's all that matters. Anything else they can deal with, just as long as his friend's _alive_.

"Alright," Dean says. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

When Cas speaks next it's no longer with reproach. Just in question.

"How?"

In-between their heated back and forth a half-baked plan had been forming in Dean's mind about this and he thinks now he might just have the answer.

"They've pulled this before you said, right?" he asks. "Pretending to be me?"

"Yes. They have led me as far as the main entrance before renewing my bondage and dragging me back," Cas explains. He's frank at first, but then bites his lip and looks down. "It has taken me... a shamefully long time to stop being taken in by the deception."

"Well, you're gonna be taken in again," Dean tells him. "Only this time, you're gonna make it through that entrance. And you're never coming back."

Castiel's forehead creases only slightly as he looks up.

"You plan on leading me outside. In full view of all leviathan in the building?"

"Not _all_ of them," Dean protests. "Only the ones in the lobby."

Castiel blinks at him.

"Even so..." he starts. "The chances of such a plan achieving even a modicum of success are... extremely low."

A kind of youthful excitement grows in Dean. The kind that puts butterflies in his stomach and makes him feel invincible. The kind he'd felt on those first few hunts with Dad. That wild yet paradoxically calm sense that while anything was possible, everything would be fine. Had to be. Because they wouldn't let it be otherwise.

He grins.

"Just how I like 'em," he answers, holding out a hand. "Now, you coming or what?"

Cas' eyes move from Dean's to the hunter's outstretched palm and his lips start to curve.


	2. Chapter 2

"Please no... please..."

The words sound anxious. Frightened.

They make Dean frown into his pillow. He wants to do something, to hush the fear in that voice away so he never has to hear it again.

But sleep overpowers him and the voice fades.

"No. No don't... don't don't!"

Pleading turns to screaming - deep, guttural cries of pain - and this time Dean bolts upright, fully awake.

"Cas!" he calls, awareness slamming into him like a sucker punch to the gut.

Casting off his bedcovers he rushes to the other side of the room. There's not far to go. It's a crappy room in a rundown part of town - you could probably reach out and touch every wall at a stretch. In fact Dean's pretty sure he's slept in barns more comfortable than this. But he's glad of the size now since it gives him easy access to his friend.

"Cas, wake up!"

In a practiced manoeuvre Dean clambers on top of the sleeping angel. He kneels over Cas' legs to hold them still and after a moment's struggle manages to grip his friend's thrashing arms and pin them against the mattress. Cas has already shifted halfway down, covers and pillows thrown to the floor in a messy heap, which tells Dean this is a bad one. That or it's been going on a long time. Either way, he curses himself for being the first to fall asleep last night.

Usually he waits until Cas hits the hay and keeps watch for a few hours. Just until the first couple of nightmares have passed. They seem to be the worst. He'll wait until Cas starts muttering, shake the guy awake, wait until he falls asleep again, shake the guy awake, repeat as necessary, then catch a few hours himself sometime between three and six in the morning.

It's not like it's new for him, skipping his beauty sleep on a semi-regular basis. But it's been a long couple of weeks. So long it seems impossible sometimes that it was only two weeks ago he was ready to end it all, without even leaving a note this time. Two weeks since he and Cas snuck out of leviathan HQ right under Dick Roman's nose. Two weeks since Dean ditched his wheels and his phone, wrapped a shivering angel of the lord up in his former trenchcoat and went on the run, not wanting to risk giving the 'Mensa' monsters any way of tracking him down once they realised what had happened to their living stress ball.

Two weeks since he left a coded message in the local rag of their last town, setting up a rendezvous in a month's time with Sam. Two weeks of finding Cas clothes that fit, of tending his wounds and learning what he likes to eat.

Two weeks, and not a single night without hearing Cas scream at least once.

"Cas, come on man," he tries again, still wrestling with his unconscious friend. "Snap out of it!"

Cas arches his back and yells something incomprehensible, sweat breaking out across his forehead so his untidy black locks stick to the skin. Dean can see a dark patch blooming through the faded AC/DC shirt he'd dug out of Goodwill the other day as well, telling him the stitches in Cas' abdomen have come out again.

"Damn it, Cas," Dean snaps, masking fear with impatience.

He's brought Cas back from these terrors relatively unharmed so far, but every night risks being the one his friend hurts himself beyond repair. Yes, he's healing faster than a normal man, but that's not even close to angel power and Dean can't help feeling apprehensive.

He used to think, after not one but two miracle returns, there was nothing Cas couldn't bounce back from. In fact, truth be told, his whole concept of death had been turned on its head once he'd made the trip to and back from the great beyond a couple of times and met Daddy Reaper in person. But since then the world has taken it upon itself to reinforce Dean's concept of mortality in the cruellest way possible and he's now only too aware how quickly and unexpectedly life can be snatched away.

Since Cas is clearly too deep in whatever horror he's reliving to hear him Dean tries a more hands on approach, freeing Cas' arm for a moment so he can slap the guy across the face. Hard. He winces at the thwack, but knows being gentle won't cut it. He's tried that before and got nothing but more screaming and a bite or two for his trouble. With Cas in this deep it takes something pretty significant to shake him out of it.

Cas lashes out with his free arm in response but Dean's ready for the strike and catches his friend's wrist before it reaches him, thankful it's not the broken one. As he does the struggling stops and Dean looks down to find watery blue eyes blinking up at him.

"Hey," Dean says, lips twitching in relief. "Welcome back."

Cas' chest continues to heave for a moment, eyes darting round the room as he tries to match what he's seeing to whatever visions he'd been plagued with before. Dean waits it out. He remembers that kind of disorientation and how sucky it is.

He knows Cas is fully awake by the way he relaxes into the mattress, breathing out in a long, heavy sigh.

"I'm sorry," Cas says. Dean bristles - that word seems forever on Castiel's lips and he's getting sick of it. But now's not the time to bring it up. "Was I very loud?"

He's asking because of a few days ago when Cas' disquiet nights had led to complaints and eventually got them kicked out of the hotel they'd been staying in. It had been too upmarket was the problem, but other than squatting there hadn't been anywhere else and with Cas still as fragile as he is Dean doesn't like to risk a place without amenities. Not that it isn't a risk in itself checking-in somewhere every night, even with the brand new boring as fuck identities Frank Devereaux set up for him and Sam, and now Cas by default. But Dean's optimistic he can make the cash he has stashed in the lining of his duffle last at least until the meet with Sammy in a few weeks time. That should avoid a credit card trail and by then Cas should be healed up enough to cope with the occasional rough night.

"Yeah, you were pretty loud, dude," he admits. "But it's cool. This neighbourhood no one's gonna care. We could go nuts with a shotgun in here and the people outside wouldn't even bat an eyelid."

Cas accepts this with a nod.

Dean's still kneeling above him, holding him down, but Cas doesn't ask him to move. Instead he lets his head fall back and stares passed Dean to the mouldy ceiling, content to stay Dean's captive while his breath evens out and the last vestiges of his nightmare dissolve.

He's been known to get shaky afterwards, especially after the bad ones, knocking things over or toppling out of bed, so Dean thinks nothing of holding Cas a few minutes longer just to make sure. One freshly opened wound is more than enough.

"You good?" he asks after a while.

Cas glances his way but doesn't answer.

"I will be fine," he says, evasive, gaze shifting from the ceiling to the door.

"Okay," Dean nods, rolling off and dropping down on his own bed. He hesitates for a moment then continues. "You, uh, you wanna talk -?"

"No. Thank you," Cas cuts in. Quiet but firm.

Yeah. Dean gets it. He hadn't wanted to talk when he got out either. In many ways it's a relief the way Cas is mirroring how things were for him after Hell. It means Dean has at least some idea what's going on with the guy and the best way to act. It's a relief too not having to talk yet because Dean doesn't think he's ready to find out just what those monsters were doing to his friend. All the shit he could have saved Cas from if he hadn't been so ready to give up on him.

Maybe when they hook up with Sam again Dean will let him deal with all that emotional crap. He'd been pretty good at getting Dean to spill his guts about Alistair and everything and, all things considered, been a damn good listener and supportive brother about it. You know, when he wasn't out drinking demon blood and stuff.

"Okay," Dean says again, slapping his palms to his knees to put an end to the conversation. Moving on to practicalities he leans forward and curls his fingers in an 'up' motion. "Sit up and lift your shirt. I need to check your dressings."

Cas obeys him in silence and they spend what's left of the night refreshing the patchwork of bandages and stitches over the angel's body.

\---

As far as Dean's concerned things are going well two days later when he and Cas head out of the local diner after breakfast. Dean had, unsuccessfully, attempted to introduce Castiel to the joy of Belgian waffles and the face the angel made when he tried a mouthful looked every bit as pained as Sam's used to when Dean mixed vinegar in with his maple syrup as a kid. 'It's very... sweet,' Cas offered, like they were talking about an unpleasant, yet oddly fascinating, bacteria or something, as opposed to one of the greatest edible creations of all time. Outside pie, obviously. Cas just shrugged and returned to his plain egg on toast when Dean tried to explain the obscenely high sugar content was the beauty of the thing.

Eh. He'll try again when Cas is fully healed. Maybe his taste buds are broken.

"This way," he calls when Cas heads instinctively to the far side of the parking lot.

"But the car is this way, Dean," Cas answers, shifting the bag on his shoulder so he can point towards the small, featureless Toyota they'd driven down in. The tattered, greying ends of the bandage round his wrist poke out of the sleeve of his sweatshirt with the move, reminding Dean they haven't changed it for a couple of days and he'll have to take care of that at their next stop.

"Time for something new," Dean says, eyeing up what else the lot has to offer. He's bored of the Toyota anyway.

There's a Ford a row along that, while just as dull, would be spacious enough for Cas to stretch out in the back seat. But a closer look reveals a 'Baby on Board' tag dangling from the back window and Dean's not desperate enough to take away the hard-earned transport of a soccer mom.

The Dodge a little further on would be an easy mark with its window half open but - no. Just - no.

The Mustang in the corner is tempting as fuck... but, no. Better go for something less conspicuous.

The Mercedes in the third row it is...

After checking for alarms it doesn't take long for Dean to by-pass them and get the door open. He throws his bag in the back and nods at Cas to climb in the other side. He'd made sure to leave the diner while everyone else was still mid-meal, but you could never know for certain a car owner wasn't gonna come out and catch you in the middle of a jack. Best to hot wire the thing and get driving as soon as.

Cas opens his door and throws his bag on top of Dean's while Dean slips into the driver's seat and works his magic on the wires under the dash. Instead of getting in as well though Cas pauses in the open doorway, dark lines creasing at the corners of his eyes like hairline cracks over ice.

"Dean..." he starts with a frown, leaning in with one hand either side of the doorframe. "Your car... is it with Sam?"

Dean breaks from sorting through the mass of wiring he's exposed to look up in surprise.

"You mean the Impala?"

Cas has never mentioned his baby before, or made even a passing comment on any vehicle that Dean's aware of, beyond terming them 'small, confining contraptions.' He'd kind of assumed Cas didn't bother distinguishing between cars, considering them at best unfortunate necessities, to be borne rather than enjoyed.

But Cas is lifting his eyebrows now in the affirmative, so Dean supposes the difference between the rot they've been using the last few days and his pride and joy is something the angel must be aware of at least. Although, considering the frequency they've been changing modes of transport it's not surprising Cas would pick up on types of car being an issue at the moment.

"We, uh, we had to bench her," he explains, trying - and failing - not to wince at the reminder. When Cas' eyebrows move down in response he elaborates. "She's, you know, kinda distinctive. Easy to track, for monsters who know what they're looking for."

Understanding dawns on Cas' face, followed by a cloud of regret. The same one that's always looming over him whenever something leviathan or Bobby related comes up.

Dean looks away, focusing back on getting the car started. It can't hurt if he doesn't think about it.

"It's cool," he tries as he swipes the relevant wires together, receiving a splutter from the engine in response. "She's... I mean... it's..." He grimaces, lips curling back against his teeth as he forces out the lie. "It's just a car..."

He swipes the wires together again, hard. Too hard. The engine gives a startled roar then falls into silence.

"Dean -" Cas starts, voice soft. Soft and low and full of things that have no place at a casual breakfast or friendly road trip.

"Don't you fucking dare tell me you're sorry!" Dean snaps, trying the wires again. "I am so tired of hearing that from you."

This time the engine growls all the way into life and Dean welcomes the mindlessness of the sound. He sits back in the driver's seat and lets the steady purr of it blot out the need to think or feel or anything.

"Get in," he tells Cas. "We've got at least a five day drive to our meet with Sam. We should get going."

Dean ignores Castiel's pained look and the way the angel stares at his feet once he's settled in, instead flicking through the stations on the radio as he pulls out of the lot. He stops on the first one he finds playing hard rock and the journey alternates between ear-splitting vocals and awkward silence whenever the music stops to change track.

\---

Three days, two cars and a couple more seedy motel rooms later and Dean's blinking lazily awake, early morning sunlight winking at him through the gaps in a pair of floral curtains the Seventies forgot.

He stretches out on the room's equally flower powered bedspread, letting wakefulness spread down his body. It's an awesome feeling and he curls his toes with a sigh, trying to prolong it. He can't remember the last time he felt this rested and relaxed.

There's something niggling the back of his mind, some reason he hasn't felt this way for a while, but he can't quite -

Then it clicks.

He's slept in.

Slept like a baby through the whole night even. Making this the first morning he hasn't woken up to Bobby's loss gnawing away at him. He can feel the hurt now, building up the more he thinks about it, but it's an ache, a something, instead of the emptiness it has been. Which is a step Dean supposes.

At its worst the pain had felt like a living thing with teeth and claws, a ravenous creature tearing him up from the inside, scooping out his innards until there was nothing left. At those times, when Dean was too hollow to focus, Castiel's nightmares had seemed almost a blessing, giving him a purpose, something more worthwhile to do than drowning in liquor or obsessing over revenge.

Which is another thing, Dean realises. He's not the only one who's improved this morning, as an easy night for him means a nightmare-fee one for Cas.

Go team.

Smiling, Dean sits up and turns to his friend's bed by the window.

Empty.

Dean just stares at the neatly made spread with its large purple and orange flower prints for a few moments, mind blank. It's a little crumpled from where he'd seen Cas drop down on it when they got in, but other than that there's nothing to suggest it's been slept in.

Which probably means it hasn't.

They'd been on the road hours longer than Dean intended last night when a couple of closures forced him onto an alternate route, one that skipped the town he'd meant to hole up in for the night and took them straight to this one instead. He'd been so exhausted he'd given Cas only a cursory glance before collapsing himself, trusting his friend's cries would wake him as and when.

A second look round tells Dean the bag he'd bought the guy is also gone.

"Fuck!" Dean yells, jumping to his feet and scrambling round for his shoes.

\---

He finds Castiel in the town centre staring intently at the timetable printed under one of the bus stops there. It's still early, just after dawn, so Cas is the only one waiting, making him easy to spot in his loose-fitting black T-shirt, arms looking almost skeletal folded across his stomach, jeans sagging down his hips.

Pale and shivering in the cool morning air with his tiny bag at his feet Cas looks like a homeless junkie going through withdrawal. The sight makes something clench in Dean's chest, even as relief washes over him.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" he shouts through the window of their latest car - a silver Honda this time - skidding to a halt in front of the angel.

Save for his continual shivers Cas remains still through this verbal assault, eyes fixed on the plastic coated list of numbers before him. He waits until the sliding window between them has finished clicking into place in the car door before answering.

"I am trying to make sense of the bus system."

"Why?" Dean demands, the question overlapping with Cas' reply.

Castiel sighs, looking away from the timetable but still refusing to look at Dean.

"So I can transport myself away from here, evidently."

Dean purses his lips and shakes his head, happily letting the anger that rushes through him at this answer take over. He smacks the Honda's steering wheel with the ball of his hand to take the edge off, then yanks the car door open and stomps out, slamming the thing behind him.

"Fuck you, Cas!" he yells as he crowds into Cas' space, shoving the angel in one shoulder so Cas is forced back a few paces, head turning towards Dean on instinct. "I thought we talked about this! You promised we'd stick together."

Blue eyes flare for a moment, an old, unearthly glow lighting up within them.

"I promised you nothing," Cas answers, voice a low growl. "I agreed to let you facilitate my escape and to continue my existence." The hard set of Castiel's jaw softens. "I fully intend to honour that agreement, Dean. Look -" He unfolds his arms and stretches them out. The way this makes the T-shirt hang from him, the trailing scraps of bandage an eyesore at his wrist, only emphasises how sickly Cas is. "- I am living." He folds his arms back to himself with another shiver. "I merely intend to live... elsewhere. From you."

These words twist like a knife, low in Dean's stomach.

"So that's how it is, huh?" he spits back. "Now that you think you're fit enough to stand on your own what, we're done? I'm no use to you anymore? Just someone else for you to screw over and discard, like your frat buddy soldiers? Like Crowley?"

Cas closes his eyes, heavy lines weighing down his brow and making him look weary and worn out. So many years older than Jimmy Novak's soft, boyish features might suggest him.

"No, of course not," he answers and the slow drag of the words, the way Cas' whole body seems to ache with them, sees some of Dean's anger melt away.

When Cas opens his eyes again, both of them so very earnest and wide, Dean finds his tension draining completely. The furious patter of his heart starts to slow, replaced by a softer but no less anxious beat of confusion.

"I'm just trying to make things easier, for both of us," Cas adds.

Dean stops and starts a few times then breathes out, incredulous.

"How is this easier?" he asks, baffled. "You out god knows where, while I have no idea what you're doing? How you are? Cas - what -?"

He stops, lost for words, but Cas picks up where he's left off.

"It is better, surely, than having to live with me as a constant reminder of what you have lost. What I have cost you," he says. When Dean makes no reply Castiel continues. "I understand Dean that you cannot forgive me for what I have put you through. I do not ask you to and I do not expect it. But I see no reason why we should have to suffer each other's presence unnecessarily. I will forever be grateful to you for your kindness and your assistance these past few days. It is more than I deserve. But there is no purpose in continuing an association that will always, at its heart, be at odds. And I will not stay to torment Sam with the same. He has suffered so much worse at my hand. I realise my chances of forgiveness from him are even less. Don't let us be a burden to each other, Dean. Let us at least part on good terms."

That, of course, is when the first bus of the day decides to make an appearance, pulling up alongside them with a rattle and a clank. The doors clatter open and as Dean offers no reply Castiel hefts his bag over his shoulder, gives a sad half smile and moves towards them.

"I - but -" Dean stammers. This is what you get, he knows, when you ignore the emotional crap. Maybe one day he'll learn. "Forgive you? Of course I forgive you, you moron!"

Castiel stops with his hand on the railing inside, one foot on the bottom step of the three leading into the machine. The bus driver tuts impatiently beneath his crisp red cap, tailor made to match his equally starched shirt complete with company logo stitched into the top pocket.

"Cas - you - Jesus -" Dean rushes forward and yanks at the neck of Castiel's T-shirt, pulling him back. "You think any of that even matters any more? After everything?"

Castiel's eyes are wide again. His mouth opens but he doesn't speak. He looks almost afraid.

"Is one of you getting on or not?" the bus driver asks, head turning from Cas to Dean and back again, mouth carved into a scowl.

"We're not, fuck off!" Dean snaps at him, waving a hand.

The driver mutters something scathing about time wasting and lovers' tiffs that Dean could care less about as he closes the doors. A second later the bus is pulling away with a hiss.

"And Sam?" Dean continues like he hasn't been interrupted. "Sam forgave you months ago. Hell, he was probably forgiving you as he stuck that fucking sword in your back, he... there was no question. You're family, Cas. It's what we do!"

"You bound Death himself and sent him to kill me, Dean," Cas protests, finding his voice again. He sounds pissed now, which is at least something Dean knows how to work with.

"Because you weren't you!" Dean yells back, but even as he does he knows it's not true, not really.

Fucking damn it they are going to have to have this conversation, aren't they? They're going to have to hash this out and he's going to have to face up to all the crap he's had on lockdown since the reservoir. Or tried to lock down anyway, the occasional nightmare notwithstanding.

"I mean... I didn't..." Dean tries, but suddenly Castiel's sparkling blue is overwhelming, his eyes neon bright against the washed-out pallor of his cheeks. The look is every bit as hurt and accusatory as the one he'd given that night with Death and Dean can't take it. He looks away, pinching the bridge of his nose to try and ease the pressure that's sprung up out of nowhere at the back of his skull. "It was easier, alright? It was easier if it wasn't you. If I could pretend you were some... some monster. Because I couldn't stand the thought of -" Losing you. "The thought that it was a friend of mine, the fucking... the best friend I had, working with demons behind my back, pulling all that shit we were hearing on the news." Dean drops his hand and sucks in a lungful of oxygen like he's drowning, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. Shit. Shit. There was a reason he'd kept this buried. "Just like it was easier not to listen back at Bobby's when you tried to explain, right? Because, I don't know, that way I could put it all on you I guess." Dean screws his eyes up. That's what he's best at, isn't it? Shutting people out. Pushing them away. Especially when it looks like they might leave. Because it's better to leave them first than suffer the inevitable goodbye. And it can't hurt to lose what you don't have. "I just..." Dean opens his eyes and stares at the sidewalk, counting and forgetting the clumps of grit between his boots. "I hated to think I'd let you down. That I made you think you didn't have a choice."

Cas breathes in behind him, something between a gasp and a protest.

"The decision to work with Crowley, to take in the souls, it was mine to make, Dean," Cas offers and the anger in his voice has faded to nothing. "You didn't -"

"Yeah, I did!" Dean interrupts, looking back. He has to blink furiously for a moment but he holds Cas' gaze this time. "You think I haven't spent the last few months going over and over this? Because I have! I've kept myself awake nights thinking about the things I could have done, the stuff I should have said. You were family, man. I should have talked you down. I should never have let it get that far!"

"I gave you little option," Cas argues. "And you were right. You and Sam. Opening Purgatory... I was not strong enough."

"Dude, you're talking about the guys who started the apocalypse," Dean counters. "We're the poster boys for bad decisions. Who are we to throw stones, you know? And god, Cas, I..." Dean's shoulders sag. He feels drained, like he's run a hundred miles with a pack of hellhounds at his heels all the way. "I saw you disappear in that lake and I didn't care about Crowley or Purgatory or damn it even Sam. Not then. None of it. All I was thinking was that you were gone, really gone this time and I -" He cuts off, because if there are words for the complete, overwhelming sense of loss he'd known by that lakeside, sodden trenchcoat in hand, he doesn't think he can find them. "Because you... you always come back, Cas. I guess I'd figured... whatever happened, we'd get you back in the end. I'd get you back... but..."

A crazy doubt fills Dean and he reaches out, grabbing Cas by the shoulders. He needs to be sure the angel's there, that's he's a tangible thing. Because who knows, right? Maybe this is what it's like for Sam. Maybe he's been making up these last few weeks the same way his brother shared a car ride with the Devil that time.

The solid, shivering feel of Cas is more comfort than even the largest shot of Jack and Dean kneads his friend's skin as he continues, craving the assurance, the physical reminder that Castiel is back now.

Cas stares at him through it all looking shell-shocked.

"What you did? To me, to Sam, to... to all those dumb schmucks who got in your way during your godly crusade? It was stupid. It was worse than stupid. But I..." Dean pauses, staring back to try and make sure Cas is listening because this is important. "But I don't care, Cas. Not anymore. You were stupid. I was a dick. It's all fucking water under the bridge and you know what? Sam's okay. I mean, like, really okay. Better than me. And you're here and I'm here and with Bobby gone I... Can't we just... start over?" Dean steps closer, shaking Cas a little in his desperation. "Can't we just write this whole Purgatory thing off and... I don't know. Move on...? Please?"

If Cas hears him he doesn't give any sign. Just keeps staring.

"Damn it, say something!" Dean begs in the end, too on edge to show much patience. He shakes Cas again as well, harder this time, and that seems to jolt Castiel back to awareness, wide eyes blinking into focus.

"You..." Cas starts. "You mean it? You forgive me?"

If he wasn't so tense Dean might have rolled his eyes.

"Freaking angels," he mutters. Trust Cas to focus on that. "Yes. I forgive you. You're absolved. Ava fucking Maria. Whatever you want."

He jokes, but even so, saying the words aloud leave Dean lighter. Like one of the many burdens on his shoulders has actually lifted. Because it's true. He does forgive Cas. Even for Sam.

And the bitch of it is that, like Sam, he has done all along.

Maybe that was half his trouble during those dark months with Cas gone. Knowing he'd left it too late. Because he wanted to make Cas work for it. Because he was so sure they had time. And he'd been wrong.

They'd had one chance, one, to make amends and Dean had wasted it. Because of him Cas had died alone, damned and, for all Cas knew, despised by the only friends he had, and it was that as much as anything that had tormented Dean. To think he'd let it end that way, let Cas believe that and then had to live on, knowing he'd never get the chance to prove his friend otherwise. Never find that closure.

It's the relief, maybe, at having begun to set things right about this which distracts Dean. That stops him resisting when Castiel grips him gently round the waist and kisses him.

Cas' lips are a contrast to the rest of him with their gentle heat, dry against Dean's but pressing in with such tenderness it seems cruel to deny them.

But it is still a kiss. On the lips.

From a guy. From Castiel.

Dean pulls away, holding his hands up between them.

"Whoa, whoa!" he protests. "What -?"

Castiel licks his lips and folds them together, abashed, and Dean finds himself completely and inappropriately fascinated by the move. By the wet slide of Cas' tongue and the way it softens the skin, making it shine a little in the bright early-morning sun.

"I... I didn't mean..." Cas says. "I merely... I must have misread." He backs away. "I'm sorry."

Cas starts to turn but Dean stops him with a hand to his arm. He doesn't even know why. Just that he doesn't want Cas leaving. Not now, not ever again. He wants him close. He wants him...

He wants him.

Well how about that?

Moving forward feels like a dream, when something you know is absurd makes complete sense in that moment of dreaming it.

"Didn't I tell you I don't want you saying that anymore?" Dean mutters before touching Cas' wetted lips with his own.

And it's easy, so very easy, to kiss him. To keep kissing him. To slip his tongue between them and taste Cas' for himself. Dean cups Cas' face in his hands and wonders at how he'd ever thought this would be difficult. All his life the world had been telling him how weird it would be kissing a guy, how uncomfortable it would make him, how wrong it was for someone like him. Film, TV, his dad - all these things had convinced him women were his only chance at Nirvana. That and Hell. So very much Hell and all the perversions Alistair had subjected him to. But they were wrong. He was wrong.

This is not weird or uncomfortable or torturous.

This is freaking awesome is what this is.

Until Castiel grabs Dean by the wrists and tries to jerk away.

He manages to push Dean's arms down but doesn't move back more than a step. Even then his body stays angled forwards, features twisting in and out of a grimace, conflict in every flinch.

"Dean..." he gasps. Pleading. "Don't... Don't..."

The strain of the hold proves too much for Cas' weakened wrist and he's forced to let one of Dean's arms go. Dean lifts his freed hand and runs a thumb along Cas' lips, silencing him. Cas stills, eyes flicking up, but Dean's too busy stroking round his friend's jaw to notice the tension, too busy running fingertips over stubble and round Cas' ear, threading his hand into the angel's thick, wiry hair. Because if they really are crossing this line, they might as well go the whole nine yards.

Cas shifts under the hold, half nuzzling into it at first like he's embracing the touch. Then twisting the other way, trying to escape.

Dean understands.

There are times when acceptance is far far worse than rejection.

"I'm not. Cas, I'm not," he breathes, trying to sound reassuring. Which is hard because his dreamlike state is starting to fade, making this all incredibly real and impossible and he's having trouble believing he's even thinking any of this let alone saying it. It's no wonder Cas would doubt him. "I want to..."

He leans closer so their cheeks brush together. The stubble chafes, but Dean doesn't care.

For his part, Castiel is frozen, caught between giving in and breaking away. Dean holds him tight so he can't pick the latter. Just for now, just while he tries to convince Cas he's not jerking around.

If he can't, if Cas really wants out, then he'll let go. He will.

But not yet.

"I want to."

Pressing his lips to Cas' temple Dean starts kissing his way down the side of his friend's face. He's thinking all the way down holy shit this is Cas he's making out with here, his best friend Cas, his guy friend Cas.

But he doesn't stop.

And by the time he's found the corner of Cas' mouth the angel's resistance has melted away enough for Cas to turn his head and meet Dean's lips full on, eyes flicking shut as he kisses back. Seconds later Cas shudders and falls boneless into him, letting Dean go so he can circle Dean's hips with both arms.

Dean slips his free hand round Cas' neck, the fingers of his other burying themselves in the mass of hair at the back of Cas' skull and they breathe each other in. Dean doesn't know if Cas is complying because he truly believes Dean when he says he wants this, or if he's just worn his friend down, but for now he doesn't care. He doesn't want this anymore he needs it. This closeness, this drawing together. His whole body yearns for it, a craving so deep he can't tell where it's coming from or how long it's been there. It feels like it's been part of him forever. The puzzle piece they've been missing all along, filling up that last bit of empty space and completing the picture.

They're panting when they break away, foreheads pressed together. Dean lets his hands slide down the curve of Cas' neck and hold there. He thinks he should say something but doesn't know where to start.

Cas saves him the trouble.

"In the dark," he whispers. "When they left me. I dreamt of you."

Dean's chest grows tight.

"And when I did," Cas continues, lifting his head. Seen this close he's little more than a blur - white with blue smudges. "I dreamt of this." His lips ghost back over Dean's so it's more Cas than oxygen he's breathing in. "My dreams have always been of this, Dean."

Always. The word echoes in Dean's mind. Lingers like the chime of bells through a church hall. Always.

Planting both hands on either side of Cas' face Dean pulls away until the angel swims into focus. He sees a stubbled jaw, chapped lips and, for the moment, slightly sunken cheeks. Same old Castiel. But what he's seeing isn't anywhere near the whole story. It's not this face, this man, Dean's been mourning all this time. He's seeing the vestige of Jimmy Novak, but Castiel is so much more than that.

Big as the Chrysler building he'd said once, and Dean had shrugged it off, told himself that yeah, sure, outside a vessel angels are different, he gets it.

But he hadn't. Still doesn't.

He'd assumed. Thought he knew Cas. Like wearing the guy's mark on his shoulder gave him some kind of claim on the angel. Meant he understood the guy, better than anyone. Profound bond, right?

What a joke, he thinks now. To imagine he could possibly comprehend all the facets of someone, something, so vast. There's shitloads about Cas he doesn't know and this - this doesn't even scratch the surface.

"Dude," he says, trying, like always, to give the angel a label that will somehow quantify him, make him a person, something Dean can wrap his head around. "You never said."

Cas shifts in his hands and Dean takes a moment to think how weird it is feeling that head tilt instead of seeing it, being a part of it instead of a spectator.

"You never asked," Cas answers.

And that's the whole damn tragedy of their relationship right there.

New grief hits Dean as he thinks of all the time they've lost, the chances they've missed. He'd been wrong to think Cas was his, but the fucking irony is that he would have been. Some honest words a few years back and they could have had this all along. Just think how different the last two years might have been if instead of putting Lisa and Ben at risk he'd -

But 'what if' games are for losers.

Okay, so they screwed up.

This time... maybe not.

He rubs a thumb down the underside of Cas' jaw.

And jumps when a car zooms up the road beside them, its momentum making Dean's jacket flap at the edges.

Fuck it if they're not still out in the open where anyone can see them. Dean needs to fix that.

"Come on."

He grabs Cas by his good hand and tugs him down the sidewalk.

After a step there's a muffled thunk and then a jolt as Cas pulls him back.

"My bag," the angel mutters.

Dean glances at the fallen duffle and shrugs.

"Leave it," he says, moving Cas on. It's just stuff, they can buy more. Getting Cas somewhere secluded is way more important.

He pulls into the first alleyway they come to, dragging Cas past the obligatory dumpster and easing him back against the wall. Cas meets him for the next kiss, hands twisting in Dean's jacket to draw him closer, confident enough to scrape his teeth over Dean's lower lip and tease the flesh until Dean moans.

Body working on instinct Dean slides a knee round Cas' thigh and between his legs, pressing up. Cas grunts, tugging Dean closer and Dean smiles. Fucking yes. With Cas' tongue still tangled round his own Dean trails a hand down Cas' T-shirt and crumples it up, fingers sliding over the strip of skin above his friend's pants. The sound Cas makes this time is softer, needier, and Dean likes it much better.

Cas is cold to the touch, which is natural enough when it's frosty out and the dumbass isn't wearing more than one layer. Dean needs to call him on that sometime because it's becoming an 'issue' this aversion to heavy clothing. The only covering Cas can stand to wear longer than an hour or so is the ratty trenchcoat Dean pulled out for him the night they escaped and what with the black goo, blood and being dunked in a reservoir it's in no condition to be worn in public. Still, if wearing a trench means that much to the guy maybe Dean should just get Cas a new one. But that's something they can work on later. For now, Dean knows his combo of double layers and rising adrenaline has him running hot so he spends some time rubbing his palm round Cas' waist and back, sharing the heat. If they're going to do this in a dirty alley the least he can do is make things comfortable for the guy.

The way Cas continues to keen, mouthing down Dean's neck to try and quiet the sound, tells Dean the angel's okay with this decision.

But when Dean slides a hand up the other side of Cas' Tee Cas full on growls, body tensing. Dean worries he's gone too far at first but just as he's thinking of backing off he finds himself swung round, shoulder blades hitting brick as Castiel pins him to the wall. Dean just manages to take a breath before Cas is on him, sucking at the pulse point in his neck and grinding his hips up and down.

Half-hard already Dean ruts back with enthusiasm, shocked and excited by the feel of Cas against him. Cas is harder and the sudden unexpected thrill of that, combined with the friction between them, draws a cry from Dean.

The noise surprises Cas enough to make him draw back and when Dean blinks open eyes he doesn't remember closing he finds the angel scanning their bodies in a daze. Like he's confused by his own boldness and where it's led them.

Dean touches a hand to his friend's cheek in assurance and is rewarded by having Cas meet his gaze. Something about the positioning sparks up a memory and Dean smiles.

"Remember the last time we did this?" he teases. "When you were beating the crap out of me?"

Recognition sparks in Cas' eyes and for a second his expression hardens to the dark, stony one he'd worn then while dragging Dean from Michael. That's twice now, Dean realises, Castiel has brought him back from the brink.

Then Cas slides a hand over the one on his cheek, fingers curling loosely round Dean's, and his gaze softens as memory gives way to the present.

"I was so angry that day," Cas says. "Not righteous, but hot and wild and human." His fingers grip tighter, pushing through Dean's until Cas' short, broken nails bite the webbing. Cas leans closer, his weak hand finding its way from Dean's shoulder to the collar of his jacket and sliding beneath. "You make me feel such things, Dean." Hot, shallow puffs of breath fall on Dean's cheek. "You make me feel -"

Cas stops, either by accident or design, as their noses collide. He rubs up along Dean's but doesn't move further. There's a pleasure to be had in that Dean knows, being close but not quite there. He's had fun testing his endurance before, seeing how long he can prolong that teetering, but fuck if he has the patience for it now.

"Oh yeah?" he murmurs, slipping a hand that's miraculously still under Cas' shirt down the small of his friend's back and round the curve of his ass. This part of Cas is warm enough Dean thinks as he squeezes, pressing their bodies closer.

It has the desired effect, starting a sound like a purr in the back of Cas' throat. The angel claws at Dean's shoulder and kisses him fiercely.

"Is it the same?" Cas growls into Dean's skin, pulling the hand from his face so he can angle himself better. "These feelings you provoke in me..." He peppers kisses up Dean's jaw. Behind his ear. "Do you know them too?" His teeth scrape Dean's earlobe. "Tell me."

"I..." Dean starts, mind fogged by the sensation. "Couldn't you tell? Vulcan mind-meld me or whatever?"

Surprisingly the meaning of this question is grasped by Cas, if not the reference, because he shakes his head in response.

"I didn't like to. Not with you," he answers. "And when I tried, your thoughts were often confused. It was... difficult... to decipher them."

Dean laughs - a sudden burst of relief and remorse. At least he hasn't been alone all this time in failing to make sense of himself.

"You... I..."

He's never been able to think clearly when it comes to Cas, so it's no surprise he should lack the ability now. But if there were ever a time to start -

"No one's ever got under my skin like you," he tries, pressing a hand to Cas' back to hold him. He has a feeling this will be easier without Cas looking. "Back with Lisa I... I'd drive myself nuts trying not to think about you. I didn't... I didn't ask for you, you know? You were just there. Freaking angels. I never..."

Yeah, so this is turning out as much of a train wreck as expected. Dean presses his eyes shut and turns his head, breathing in the dry, musky sent of Cas' hair. They've got this far. It's okay. Cas isn't going anywhere.

"I didn't know how to handle you," he admits. "You crash into my life, into my dreams, and suddenly, I don't know man, I'm thinking about you, worrying about you, when you're not there. I get freaked out if I hear something might've happened to you." He shakes his head. No matter how many times he goes over his feelings for Cas, getting a handle on them it doesn't get any easier. "Damn it, I didn't... no one's screwed me up like that before, I - ha, no one expect Sam anyway."

Cas shifts in his arms.

"You're saying, I'm like Sam?" he queries.

"Yeah... kinda..."

Dean wants to explain about the crazy, fucked up need he feels as much for Cas as his brother now. The way 'brother' had been the only way he knew to define it because the idea of that bond being something else, something like this, hadn't even been on his radar until today. But he doesn't know the right words, so he presses a harsh, bruising kiss to the top of Cas' head instead.

Unhappily, Cas chooses this moment to pull away.

Dean thinks about keeping his eyes closed and refusing to look, but he knows that's childish and pathetic so he forces them open.

"Like a brother you said," Cas tells him. Like Dean's forgotten.

"Yeah, I did," Dean agrees. It's the truth after all.

"Dean," Cas continues. Calm, despite the way his pupils are blown, black as sin with the same want Dean can feel burning up the veins beneath his skin. Freaking angel. "I may be ill-versed in human convention. But I do not believe this is considered appropriate behaviour between siblings."

The bastard actually rolls his hips to emphasise the point and Dean's amazed to learn Cas' erection hasn't lessened in the slightest as a result of this exchange. Or his own as a matter of fact.

"It's... It's not..." Dean stutters. Oh fuck, they need to change the record stat. "I said like," he says, slipping a hand down the back of Cas' pants to join the other still grasping him there. "Doesn't mean you are..."

He tugs Cas forward but the angel twists his neck, holding back.

"Even so. Shouldn't you -?"

"Ca-a-s," Dean moans, growing desperate. Like a chick flick moment wasn't enough, now the guy wants to talk technicalities? Now? "I just meant, you're family, you know? I -" He gives makes a short, frustrated sound something like a whine. "Haven't you figured out yet I hardly ever say what I mean?"

Cas sighs, face creasing with similar anxiety.

"It has come to my attention," he answers. "But Dean, please, I need to know -"

Dean cuts him off by yanking his hands free and flipping the two of them round so Cas is back against the wall again. Jesus fuck now is not the time for the angel to be saying things like 'come' and 'to my attention.'

"Shut up, alright?" Dean says, untying Cas' belt and jeans in a matter of seconds. "I'll show you."

Then he's on his knees before he can think about it, pulling his friend's pants and underwear down his thighs. Cas' dick curls up proud against his belly and Dean doesn't wait for the angel to protest, he licks a line of saliva up the shaft and sucks Cas down.

Cas chokes back his next words, whatever they were simplified into a tight, monosyllabic 'oh!' and 'ah!' Dean thinks this plan was worth it just for that. But he has more in mind, of course. A lot more. So he hollows out his cheeks and keeps going, swiping his tongue over Cas' head the first few times to get the angel nice and slick.

Might as well put Alistair's perversions to good use.

The attention turns Cas blissfully quiet and Dean swivels his head so he's looking up as he works, making sure this is a good thing. Oh it's good. It's so good. Cas has his eyes closed in rapture, head fallen back against the wall, lips parted wide to let out harsh, erratic pants. His arms are pressed as flat as possible to the brick at either side of him, nails scraping the plaster.

It's such abandon, such complete surrender, it makes Dean's own cock pulse and squirm. Makes his whole lower body throb.

He hums into Cas the next time his friend's dick hits the back of his throat to try and offset the pressure. Stops to run his tongue through the slit at Cas' head when he pulls back.

Cas' panting breaks with a cry - a-a-ah! - and his hands drop hard on Dean's shoulders. They push at him, then stop and dig in. Dean's not sure if this is an objection or not, so he pauses to be on the safe side, glancing up.

Castiel stares down at him, eyes at half-mast, lips still parted. He looks wrecked already, but beautifully. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright. It's the healthiest he's looked since Dean found him.

"You okay?" Dean checks.

With no sound forthcoming, despite the stuttered movement of his lips, Cas opts for nodding instead, pressing down with his fingers in a touch Dean realises must be positive. He grins.

"Well hold on," Dean says, stroking up the back of Cas' shaking thighs. "Because we're just getting started."

The noises Cas makes when Dean starts up again are downright obscene. He spares a thought to any passers-by who must be able to hear them but fuck it, they want to stop and watch they can go ahead, there's nothing in the world could distract Dean now.

It's when Cas threads his fingers through Dean's hair that Dean knows his friend is close. It's in the desperate, unconscious way he twists and pulls, hard enough that it hurts. Not that Dean minds, he can take it.

He moves a hand between Cas' legs in response, rubbing his thumb over the tight, heavy weight of Cas' balls again and again and Cas' reaction is electric. A sudden string of 'oh oh oh oh' and he's coming hard in Dean's mouth. His legs buckle but Dean pushes him back against the wall, the balls of his hands firm against Cas' hips as he drinks his friend down.

He doesn't wait to gentle Cas through it either. He can't. As soon as the thick, salty taste is all but gone Dean's scrambling to his feet and fumbling with his fly, mouth kissing up whatever he finds along the way until he reaches Cas' lips and devours them. Fuck oh fuck he's so desperate for this it's insane. Even the way Cas is trembling against him, hands clasping the flaps of Dean's jacket, is turning him on.

When his fingers finally touch flesh and he squeezes his cock free Dean is chanting obscenities under his breath like his life depends on it, not once missing a beat even as his teeth clash with Castiel's. He breaks from Cas as he starts to jack himself off in earnest though, rough and fast, eyes closing as he presses his forehead to the angel's, other hand slamming against the wall over Cas' shoulder to help him balance.

"Dean..." Cas murmurs with a gorgeous fucking blissed-out tremor to his voice. "Oh, Dean..."

Dean jumps as fingertips brush his cheek and trail down his neck. The progress is slow and shaky, telling him Cas is still riding out pleasure. A thought that makes his cock throb so much harder.

"Oh god oh god oh fuck..." Dean starts up again, pistoning his hips now and closing his fingers tighter and tighter. He's so.damn.close.

Then there's a second set of fingers pulling his off and forming a new circle for him instead. Dean moves to snatch the hand away, only stopping at the last minute when he realises the coarse fabric he's feeling is a bandage and that he should leave that wrist alone or it's never going to heal.

Dean bites his lip in frustration, hard enough that he won't be surprised to find blood there later. He appreciates Cas wants to help but damn it he's on a roll here, the last thing he needs is to slow down and guide someone through the basics.

He blinks up, ready to tell Cas this in no uncertain terms. Except Cas' grip on him is sure and steady with no tremors at all anymore, and the rhythm he starts matches Dean's perfectly, surpassing it even with a clever twist at the end of each stroke that sets the nerve endings there on fire.

"Holy fuck!" Dean yelps, protests dying on his lips, both hands flying to Cas' upper arms for support.

Steady as a rock Cas rubs his other hand back over Dean's jaw and holds it there, forcing Dean to look at him. His lips are cherry red and swollen from kissing and his eyes are rings of blue eclipsed by black.

"You still think I'm innocent," Cas says, tone filled with wonder. "After everything I've done, you still see me as something pure. Untainted and naïve." He doesn't stop for an instant as he speaks, still jacking Dean off like a pro, and it takes all Dean has just to hear him. Then, when Cas leans forward to press a soft, scratchy kiss to his cheek Dean's too far gone to pretend the sound that escapes him isn't a whimper. "I wanted so much to be the way you imagined me, Dean," Cas breathes in his ear. "Good... Righteous... But I'm not. You saw, when you first met me and in the days after. I was never that way. I was cold... cruel..."

Dean shakes his head - a series of frantic, hurried jerks. He's so close to coming it feels like the wait might kill him, but he should say this before he's too fucked out to remember.

"You left," he gasps, the need to speak fast focusing his thoughts, narrowing his words to simple truth. "You changed. You fought for us. You were better. You were the fucking best of us, Cas."

Cas' fingers pinch under Dean's chin, tilting his head back so they're eye to eye.

"No," Cas says, still as a goddamn statue while Dean ruts into him. "No. I was the same. I'm the same as you, Dean."

Coming is like a freefall, blood pumping so loud in Dean's ears he hardly hears himself scream. All he knows is the freedom of pleasure rushing out of him, wild relief. And Cas' eyes, burning blue.

Only Cas, he thinks, as he falls limp into the angel's waiting arms, would actually use sex as the means for an epiphany.

The same, he repeats to himself as he pants into Cas' shoulder. Impossible. Cas is an angel for Christ's sake. Except, the guy's right. That had meant jack squat to Dean when they first met. In fact, if anything, it had been a mark against his friend. And yet somehow, somewhere along the line, that had changed. Dean had started seeing Cas' halo as something worthwhile. Something superior. He'd used the fact Cas was an angel as an excuse to hold him to a higher, unreasonably high, standard.

Why? Maybe because that way Cas was a clean slate. A child. And as such he had the chance that had been stolen from Dean and Sam when they were kids, the chance to build a life from scratch and get it right.

Which was why all Cas' talk of civil war and regrettable things had pissed Dean off so much. Because that wasn't what he'd wanted for his angel. He hadn't let Cas go, cut off all ties, just so Castiel could go back to being the heartless dick of a soldier he'd started out as.

That was why he'd been so critical all damn year. Why he'd acted like a freaking drill sergeant with the guy. He'd been channelling Dad, trying to mould Cas into what he wanted him to be and thinking their bond somehow gave him the right to do it. And the power.

But here's the thing -

Cas isn't a child.

Not even fucking close if his pornstar quality handjobs are anything to go by.

That's just another label. Like the all the others Dean's been slapping on the guy since they met. Ones like cryptic dickwad. Hero and Superman. Wholesome and chaste. Untouchable.

In truth, Dean still doesn't know what Cas is. But that's never been the problem. He's just been hung up on it so long it never occurred to him that, really, the 'what' makes no difference to 'who.' And it's who Cas is that matters.

So once you've stripped off all the labels - angel, child, brother, god - what's left?

Someone as messed up, confused and tangible as anyone in this mad, chaotic spinning-top of a world. Someone who always puts the people he cares about first. And what he thinks is best for them just before that.

The same. Right down to the arrogant, stubborn absoluteness of Winchester devotion.

A quaking starts up low in Dean's chest, under his diaphragm, building up and up until his whole body's shaking with it.

"Dean? Dean what is it?" Cas asks in alarm, petting Dean's neck in an effort to calm him.

When Dean lifts his head a couple of the chuckles he's been trying to hold in manage to escape through his smile. It's not surprising. His lips are stretched so wide it's a wonder they haven't spilt his face open.

"What's wrong?" Cas insists and Dean can understand how the abruptness of his joy might seem unnerving.

But he can't help it. It's just nuts to think that after everything, the crap and the heartache, the losses and mistakes, that they should have figured it out now. That after all these years dancing around, living and fighting and dying together, they've finally found each other.

In the back alley of nowhere next to the trash.

It feels like a reprieve. Like he's caught that mythical break he'd given up on lifetimes ago, back when those hellish claws first cut through his skin, putrid, demonic breath at his neck and Sammy's screams ringing in his ears as the world faded from red to black and back again.

It feels like maybe there's a future out there waiting for him after all.

"Nothing," Dean answers, still smiling as he brushes an errant lock from Cas' forehead.

"Nothing."


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey, Cas,” Dean chuckles down his latest cell as he leaves the café, still sucking on the last of the complimentary chocolate straw he'd scored with his milkshake. “What are you wearing?”

There's a pause over the line and Dean can just picture the little furrow in Cas' brow, clear as anything. He can see the turn of his friend's head, the way that lock of hair on Cas' left side that's been left to grow that bit too long would flop down to tickle the edge of his eyebrow.

“I am... wearing a dark grey sweatshirt, jeans, black woollen socks and the new boots you bought me yesterday,” Cas answers, hesitant but thorough. “How is this significant?”

Dean swallows the last of his chocolate and hums out another laugh. Mission accomplished.

“S'not. Just testing something,” he grins, pacing down the sidewalk towards the hotel three blocks down where the angel's waiting.

“Ah,” Cas answers, tone lightening. “Some other cultural phenomenon I am unaware of. Will you be elaborating on your return?”

“Nah. There are some things you don't need to know,” Dean says, still smiling.

Phone sex with Cas, now that could be hot, no doubt. But right now Dean's more taken with the guy's cluelessness about that kind of thing. He likes the honesty of it. It means he doesn't have to worry about Cas hamming things up and spewing some fake, over the top, porno-inspired praise for the sake of it like the girls Dean used to go for. Crazy as it is, Dean feels like he's past that now. If he wants a quick fix there's always pay-per-view and Busty Asian Beauties. With Cas he gets the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, honest to god. Warts and all.

Yeah, it gets awkward sometimes when you find yourself debating the hygienics of rimming at two thirty in the morning. But mostly Dean's been finding it refreshing how open they've been with each other the past few weeks.

And besides. If he wants sex with Cas he doesn't want a pesky thing like geography getting in the way.

Just the thought of seeing the angel again sends a thrill down Dean's spine. His fingers tingle, wanting, _needing_ to touch the guy, to run themselves over Cas' skin, find that dip at the base of his spine, the soft underside of his thigh.

God, Dean can't remember the last time he felt so giddy about being with another person. He thinks it might have been Cassie, but even at the best of times with her he'd never felt so _free_. Their angry sex still makes him smile, sure, but mostly he remembers having to watch his mouth in case he said something she'd fly off about, or time spent perfecting his cover story so his dad wouldn't get mad at him for giving too much away. John never did find out the truth there, thank god.  
  
He and Cas have been through so much at this point, though, said some of the very worst things they could say to each other, that there isn't anything left to hurt. Dean knows whatever crap he spouts with Cas, however mundane or insulting, he's _accepted_. And he's pretty sure Cas knows the same is true for him. God knows Dean's been trying his hardest to get that across.

Hopefully the smoking sex they'd had after that black eye Cas gave him last week during one of his rougher nights - no they'd not been cuddling just, conserving body heat - had done something to set Cas' fears to rest anyway. Damn, bad dreams aside that had been a _good_ night. Dean hadn't known _anyone_ could bend that way, let alone him. But then, Cas has a way of manoeuvring him into the impossible. Dude's good with his hands.

Cas wanted to go back to separate beds after that, but Dean spun a line about it being easier to curb his nightmares when they share, pressing the point and what an inconvenience the change would be until Cas conceded. Like always when the alternative looks to be detrimental to Dean. He should really quit playing that card. Cas probably considers submitting to Dean's whims a justified penance or some crap and Dean shouldn't be encouraging that. But fuck it, it's just so _easy_ to talk him round that way.

It's not like what he said this time isn't true either. Shushing away bad dreams _is_ a lot simpler when Dean's right there, ready to calm the tremors with a kiss to Cas' forehead or by rubbing soft circles over his back until he wakes up.

But the truth of it is it's not _Castiel's_ well-being at the heart of Dean's argument in this case. The truth is, Dean's grown accustomed to waking up with Castiel pressed against him. The angel's heat is a reassuring constant with the rest of Dean's life seeming to crumble around him. The tangle of Cas' legs in his own and the circle of his arms is a safe haven in an otherwise cold and comfortless world and Dean's not ready to give that up.

From the first time they'd tumbled into bed, still buzzing from their exhibitionism in that alley, waking up together had felt _right_. Had become routine without so much as a hitch. So easy it had taken Dean a few days to notice what a contrast that was to those first awkward weeks tangled in the sheets beside Lisa, his arms these stiff, too-long things he'd never quite known what to do with, every twist and turn in the night the result of long, anguished, internal debate as he questioned which position was best and if rolling over would disturb or offend.

He'd worked so hard preparing for the long haul with Lisa and Ben, he guesses, that a lot of the time he'd been too exhausted to appreciate their time together. He'd worried every second about getting things right, keeping his promise to Sam and making sure Lisa and Ben's world didn't get fucked up in the process. Spent so long analysing each little thing that every day felt like a lifetime.

But these weeks with Cas have _flown_ by and Dean feels like he could easily live through ten or twenty more, if not... yeah, well. Best not get ahead of himself.

“I assume there was no sign of Sam?” Cas asks. He's casual enough. Calm. But the question's a bucket of icy water on Dean's arousal nonetheless.

“Nah,” he admits.

There's a pause.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Cas replies, putting an upward inflection on the last word that's supposed to sound hopeful. He's learning, Dean gives him that.

But while he appreciates the attempt to lift his spirits, it's time they faced facts. They've been holding on till 'tomorrow' for almost a week now. If Sam were coming he'd have found them already.

“No,” he starts, slowing his pace. No need to hurry now. The kinky thoughts had only been for distraction anyway and now he's lost them. “Today was his last chance to show. We're gonna have to -”

A heavy weight on his shoulder cuts him short. Dean reaches for the knife in his belt, but a strong arm twists his own behind him and he's dragged backwards into the shadows between two shopfronts before he can utter another word. His phone clatters to the ground as his assailant brings the thick, rough edge of a machete up to his neck, forcing Dean to lower his arm or risk losing a couple of fingers. He catches the faint, tinny sound of Cas calling his name through the speaker before his attacker pulls him out of earshot.

The familiarity of the body behind him is both heartening and terrifying.

“Hey, Sammy,” he mutters, holding still.

The blade and surprise attack he can understand. With an army of shifters out there it pays to be cautious. But there's something about the erratic way Sam's breath hits his neck that stops him from relaxing at the reunion.

“Shut up,” Sam rasps back. He sounds strained, voice weak with exhaustion and ragged, like he's spent long nights screaming himself raw. Dean knows a couple of things that could do that - late night concerts and hardcore torture. Somehow he doesn't think Sam's been doing much singing since they split “Don't you say that. Don't you _dare_. I'm not -” Sam sucks in a breath and Dean feels the hand gripping his wrist shake for a moment as his brother pulls himself together. The fuck? “Where is he? Where's Dean? What the _fuck_ have you done with my brother?”

“Sam,” Dean says slowly. “This is me. I swear. Just -”

“No!” Sam hisses, twisting Dean's arm higher and drawing the blade up under his chin. “You try anything I swear to god I'll cut you! Even if it doesn't kill you, no head has gotta be pretty inconvenient, right?”

“Okay! Okay!” Dean answers, focusing ahead and holding himself rigid. Shit. Shit. Sam hasn't been this freaked out since that time he'd almost blown Dean's head off shooting at phantoms.

Jesus, how is this his life? Held at knifepoint _twice_ in under a month by the two people he cares about the most. It's either hilarious or horrific.

Still, at least this time he knows straight away how to clear things up.

“Look, I'm not a leviathan, okay?” he continues. “It's really me. Check my blood.”

He winces as Sam nicks his skin without hesitation, deeper than strictly necessary. Fucking _ow!_

There's a glimpse of untended sideburns in the corner of Dean's eye as Sam strains over his shoulder to see the edge of the machete. Then an unnerving silence broken only by his brother's heavy breathing.

“Red, see? Not black,” Dean explains in case Sam's somehow missed the point.

More silence with Sam growing tenser by the second. An odd crunching sound reaches Dean's ears that puzzles him for a moment until he realises Sam is grinding his teeth together.

“You're wrong,” Sam spits.

What?

“Dude, no. Look -”

“ _I'm not talking to you!_ “ Sam snaps and Dean shuts up.

Oh this is not good.

Sam starts muttering then, a furious whispered back and forth Dean only catches one side of, if that, and it takes all of Dean's strength to withstand it. His whole life has been about keeping the devils off Sam's back, with varying degrees of success, and even with the odds against him Dean had at least been able to take some cheap shots at the enemy before they got their hooks into his brother and dragged him down.

But this devil is one Dean can't fight and the helplessness of that kills him.

“No. No. He's alive I _know_ it. You're _lying._ Shut up. Shut up!” Sam murmurs on and on, while Dean tries to formulate a means of escape that will cause the minimal amount of pain to both of them.

That's when Dean's phone starts ringing.

He hasn't had time to change the tone yet so it's still whatever default crap it came with - a series of discordant bleeps repeated over and over. If the distraction pushes Sam over the edge and this becomes the last thing Dean hears in life he's going to be really pissed.

But Sam seems to be keeping himself entertained enough not to notice the phone.

Why's the thing ringing anyway? Oh yeah, Cas, Dean remembers. He'd cut off pretty abruptly. Poor guy must be wondering what's going on.

Even as he thinks it, Cas' profile comes into view at the mouth of the alleyway. He has his own phone pressed to his ear and looks down in confusion, and no little concern, at where Dean's continues to vibrate over the sidewalk. Dean would cry out, but the element of surprise is the only advantage Cas has here. Even unstable as he is Sam is probably strong enough to take them both out if he was really trying, especially with Cas still weak from torture, his wounds yet to fully heal.

So Dean just watches, holding his breath, as Cas snaps his phone shut and glances round the surrounding area. His eyes land on the entrance to the alley and from the way he squints Dean can tell he can't see inside. Cas is still a soldier at heart though, he's smart enough to recognise a place of ambush when he sees one and Dean watches Cas' jaw set and his shoulders square off as he readies for battle, one hand rucking up his sweatshirt - grey, just like he said - and gripping round the gun concealed beneath it.

Dean reconsiders shouting then, because it's clear Cas is expecting an enemy hidden in the shadows and why shouldn't he? Dean wasn't expecting to be taken hostage by Sam either. But if Cas isn't tipped off somehow there's a good chance he might end up hurting Sam, or worse, as he tries to get Dean free. Plus he's pretty shaking with firearms anyway, aim way off in the few tincan firing ranges Dean's set up for training purposes along the way when the nights got dull.

He's just opening his mouth when Sam saves him the trouble.

“Get away from me!” Sam yells and then everything's happening really fast.

Cas rushes forward at the sound, gun raised, but pulls up short in confusion when he sees Sam. There's no time for Dean to communicate anything to his friend though because at the same time Sam is swinging his machete away. Whether it's to ward off Cas or some other unseen assailant is unclear, but it's the chance Dean's been waiting for. He flips round and throws all his weight against Sam's outstretched arm, pinning it against the wall.

Sam's head bounces off the brick with a painful thud, but Dean can't think about that, all his focus is on twisting Sam's wrist until the machete drops from his fingers.

It's barely clattered to the ground when Cas is there picking the thing up and, to his credit, holding off from using either of his weapons. Instead he takes a step back, keeping the blade out of both Sam and Dean's reach while he assesses the situation. Good. That's a weight off Dean's mind. However uncertain of himself he might be in other things, Cas sure knows what he's doing in fight.

“Sam! Sam!” Dean yells, hoping now they're face to face he might be able to get through to his brother.

He feels Sam go slack under his hold and thinks it must have worked, until he sees the way Sam's eyelids are drooping, head nodding forwards. Damn, that hit must have been harder than Dean realised.

Slowly, with what looks like supreme effort, Sam manages to lift his chin enough to look forward.

“Dean?” he says, full of quiet desperation, before slumping back against the wall, his heavy, unconscious body dragging Dean to the ground with him.

\---

Even with fear swarming his gut like locusts the first thing Dean feels as he and Cas stretch Sam out over the bed in their motel room is relief, the sensation punched out of him in a sharp exhale as Sam's weight lifts from his shoulders. He hears Cas mimicking the sound as Sam's other arm drops from where he'd slung it over the angel, is vaguely aware of Cas backing away, eyes closed in a grimace as he rolls his shoulders to relieve the stiffness the walk down must have caused him.

But nothing else registers for long in the face of Sam's stillness. His pasty complexion and shallow breathing.

His relief short-lived, Dean reaches out to his brother, palming his neck, twisting fingers in his jacket collar, panic overriding his senses. What can he do? What can he _do?_

Then Cas is there easing him away. The angel raises two fingers and for a wild, fleeting moment Dean thinks he's reaching for Sam's forehead, that he's going to heal him. But Cas simply presses his fingers to Sam's neck, checking his pulse.

“His heart rate is slow,” Cas says and the deep, sombre tone of his voice is somehow calming. “But steady. I think... I think he's merely unconscious.”

“Will he be okay? Can you do something?” Dean asks, unthinking. Because the situation is like so many others between the three of them back in battlefield conditions. Back when it had been second nature to turn to Cas when things went south.

But when Dean looks up now Cas' expression is one of helplessness, blue eyes wide, head shaking ever so slightly. Dean sees at once Cas would do something if he could and hates that he can't and Dean bites his lip and turns away, angry with himself for asking, for putting this on his friend and making him feel a failure when it's not his fault.

“Shit, sorry. I'm sorry. I forgot,” Dean mutters, channelling his fear and frustration into balling up a fist instead and pressing it to his lips to curb any more stupid questions.

“Perhaps, I...” Cas starts, hesitant. “I know I have _some_ grace left to me. I could... try and access it -”

“ _No_ ,” Dean barks out, spinning round.

Cas cowers at the tone, flinching away from Dean's outstretched hand like he's afraid of what Dean intends by it. Dean pulls his hand back at once. He hadn't even intended the move but finds himself regretting it anyway. Damn it, nothing about this is going right!

“I mean,” he tries, voice thick as ongoing panic seizes up his throat. Dean stops and forces himself to take a breath, lets his muscles relax. “I don't want you risking any crap like that,” he continues, softer. “I'm already one man down here. I'm not losing you too. Not when I've just got you back.”

The gentle tilt of Cas' head and the way the hard line of his shoulders drops down acts like a pinprick in the neck of a balloon, breaking the tension Dean hadn't noticed building up between them and draining the pressure back to some form of normalcy. As much as their lives afford them anyway.

He hadn't thought before that Cas might consider Sam's return a threat, but thinking about it now it makes sense. Of the three of them, it was Sam who suffered the most from Cas' decision to open Purgatory, and everyone and their dog knows how much Dean's life revolves around his brother - if Sam were to react badly to Cas re-joining the team it's no stretch to imagine the angel might think Dean would disregard everything that's happened these past weeks and reject him too.

Dean wants to think that would never happen, but this thing blossoming between them, it's still too raw, too fragile. If he had to choose, right now, he simply doesn't know what he'd do. Which is a whole other thing to be scared of in and of itself to be honest.

And on top of that Sam's gone and broken on them. Fuck, maybe Cas thought that alone would be enough to make Dean turn on him. At least he's managed to put that idea to rest.

“Dean,” Cas breaks into the quiet. “I can at least try.” He's taking more care with his words now, no longer frightened but thoughtful as his eyes track back to Sam. “I don't mind.”

“Yeah, well I do,” Dean insists, slowing his speech as well, giving the words more weight. “I mean it, Cas. Don't even think about it.” He turns his gaze back to Sam, every rise and fall of his brother's chest making his heart patter that little bit less, and nods to himself. “And you're right. He's breathing. His vitals are steady. He's just sleeping. He's fine...” Dean chews on his bottom lip before adding. “Batshit insane. But fine.”

He breathes out a sigh and moves away, suddenly wiped. Reaching a rickety chair positioned beneath the window he twists it round so he can grip the back with both hands for support.

Cas takes a breath behind him.

“I never meant for this,” he says quietly.

“I know,” Dean whispers back. There's really nothing else to say about that. Because yeah, Cas did this. But then again, Sam wouldn't be around struggling with Hell memories at all if it wasn't for Cas. Dean can't say he's happy with the situation, but it is what it is, they just have to deal with it.

There's another moment of silence, save for Sam's even breathing.

“I thought you said he was better?”

It's not an accusation exactly, but there's hurt there. Like Cas thinks Dean's been deliberately holding out on him about Sam's condition.

“He _was_ ,” Dean insists, turning round to face his friend so Cas can see he's not trying to lie. It's the right decision because he turns straight into one of Cas' wide-eyed stares and sees relief there at his response. “He was... going off on his own. Making good decisions. Fucking _jogging_. He was _good_. I don't get it...” Stopping to think about this for the first time a whole set of implications hit him at once, none of them good. “Something must have happened.”

Dean's jaw sets as he runs through scenarios. Could the leviathans have got to his brother while they were separated? No, surely he'd be dead if they had. Demons? Meg? Or maybe fucking Crowley—he thinks they're being too slow dealing with the leviathan problem and this is his way of kicking them up the ass.

“Something did happen,” Cas says, interrupting his thoughts before they turn really dark. Dean stares at him inquisitively. “You left.”

“What...?” Dean's first response is confusion, because how is that relevant? Then a deep hurt burns in him as the implication hits. He masks it in anger, of course, because that's just how he rolls. “Are you saying this is _my_ fault?”

“No. _No_ ,” Cas insists, shaking his head. He sounds shocked, but impatient too and considering the recent misunderstandings between them and where they've led Dean bites his cheek to keep his emotions in check. If this is another of those times he must _not_ fly off the handle, he needs to wait this out. “I know you would never deliberately cause your brother harm,” Cas is saying and, okay then that's fair. “I'm simply suggesting your influence may have had greater significance than you realised. You're troubling yourself with unfounded fears when the simplest solution might be the answer.”

Okay. Okay he sees what Cas is getting at now. There's no point freaking out over possible nasties when the ones right in front of them are bad enough.

But. Dean shakes his head, remembering those weeks Sam had struck out alone when he found out about Amy. He'd been working a case when they hooked up again for fuck's sake, perfectly in control. Dean thinks about the solo trip Sam had requested over Vegas week. Becky's crazy aside he'd been just fine through that. And what had he said back then? _You basically have been looking out for me your whole life. Now you finally get to take care of yourself. About time, huh?_

“No,” he mutters. “No, Cas, you haven't been there these last few months. He's been going off on his own all the time. Having me out of the picture... it couldn't have caused this. He's fine without me.”

He turns his head so Cas won't see the hurt he feels about that on his face. Because he should be ecstatic if Sam's grown up enough to live without him, shouldn't he? Not lost and shaky and fucking terrified.

Cas is silent another moment and Dean recognises the quiet as belonging to a seeing-into-your-soul stare. Damn it.

Then the angel sighs.

“You belittle your value to the point of absurdity sometimes,” he says.

“Hey!” Dean snaps on instinct. But when he lifts his head to glare the softness in Cas' eyes in no way matches the insult he'd been assuming. “Um... wait...” he mutters, thinking the words over. “Thank you?”

Cas' lips curve fondly at the corners.

“Dean, you are _important_ ,” Cas tells him, holding his gaze in that familiar, commanding way of his. The one that makes Dean feel trapped and safe at the same time. “And your influence extends far beyond your physical presence. Your very existence is enough to inspire or intimidate. If Sam thought your life was in jeopardy I can understand why it would leave him... troubled.”

Sometimes Cas is so clueless it's hard to take anything he says seriously. And then sometimes he says shit like this, with all the gravitas of a Catholic priest announcing the word of god. Except, unlike a priest, Dean knows Cas has seen and suffered enough to maybe know what he's talking about.

Dean's mind rallies against the words though. Because how can anyone, least of all an angel, be saying this stuff about him? Stuff like _I'm doing this for you, Dean, I'm doing this because of you_ or _you are **important**_ and _your very existence is enough to inspire._

“ _Why?_ “ Dean asks in the end because, at this point, he just honestly wants to know. “What is about me that's so special? What have I done that's so amazing?”

Cas actually laughs, the sound bursting out of him in a flurry of disbelief.

“Oh, nothing of import, Dean,” he answers. “Only beat the Devil himself. Ended millennia of divine planning and stopped the apocalypse, defying _everyone_.”

“But I _didn't_ ,” Dean argues, thoroughly absorbed in the debate now, for which part of him is glad. Stupid as it is, at least it's a distraction. “Cas, I'm the one who started the ball rolling on the apocalypse in the first place and all I did was ride it out from there on. I was the one who tried to give up. _Sam_ took down Lucifer. Fuck it, _you're_ the one who took Michael out, even if it was just for a few minutes. And all the other crap aside, you took down Raphael. You and Sam and... and Bobby, you've been the movers and shakers—”

“Because of _you_ ,” Cas interrupts, voice rising, and suddenly he's rushing over, grabbing Dean below the shoulders like he plans to shake him. He doesn't though, just holds him, eyes wide, tone breathless as he continues. “I was there on the chosen field, Dean. I saw my brothers ready to do battle and when I fought to give you five minutes it was _you_ I was fighting for, not the world. I was there to give you peace of mind. To let you end your days with your brother. Because I saw the end that day. It was over.” Cas takes a breath, eyes shining. “And yet I came back. And the world was whole. And Michael and Lucifer were gone. And you can't tell me it wasn't because of you, Dean. That it wasn't your strength and your love that gave Sam the will to overthrow the most powerful of my brothers. I know it was. Because that's what drove me. Do you really think I would have _dared_ defy my brethren, to ever believe myself capable of facing an _archangel, alone?_ I was a footsoldier, Dean. I was nothing in the scheme of Heaven. You were the one who taught me I could be more.”

This last part Dean doesn't doubt. It's been a constant torment since the reservoir.

“Yeah,” he nods, tensing in Cas' arms. “And look at where it's got you, Cas. Look at where it's got Sam.”

Sighing, Cas loosens his hold and eases back. He doesn't let go, just shifts enough to look from Dean to Sam's prone form, the spark in his eyes slowly fading. Dean hates to see it, but he can't let this go on. The last thing either of them need is more hero-worship.

But Cas just won't quit.

“We knew the risks...” he mutters. “Perhaps we didn't accept them as we should have, but we knew them all the same.” He looks back and lifts a hand, cupping Dean's cheek in his palm. The touch is too warm and inviting to resist and Dean doesn't, letting his eyes close as he leans into it. He shouldn't. He should be focused, picking his words and making sure both of them come out of this with both feet firmly in reality, not risking any more misconceptions. But, hell, his body's just started to acclimatise to Cas' heat, finally come to accept it, and god knows he's no saint. He can't bring himself to reject any kind of physical contact from the angel just now.

“Don't misunderstand me, Dean,” Cas starts again, which makes Dean want to laugh, considering. “I see now, better than anyone, how flawed you are.” Dean thinks that should hurt, but oddly, it just makes him smile. “You are... stubborn. And arrogant. And infuriating. And yes, you have made some terrible mistakes... but isn't that what we're fighting for? Freedom to make the wrong choices?”

Opening his eyes, slowly, Dean finds Castiel's blue and dark and deadly serious.

“There was a time, not long ago, when I doubted the worth of free will when it lets us do such awful things... but these last few days—” Cas curls his fingers round Dean's ear, stroking the soft tufts of hairs there, and one side of his mouth starts to flicker. “- I have found hope, that I can do good again. And the same is true of you, Dean. You let yourself see nothing but the pain you've caused, but there is good in you too, there is. And that's what we see, Sam and I, and so many others, when we look at you.”

Silence falls between them as Cas draws to a close, Dean left half trembling at his words, at the small but persistent voice in his head telling him there might actually be some truth for him buried in there somewhere.

It'd be nice to think there was some hope for him still.

Maybe.

The groan makes both of them jump.

And Dean's rushing to his brother's side before he can think about it.

“Sam?” he says, gently shaking the kid's shoulder as he tosses over the mattress. “Sammy?”

In the corner of his eye he sees Cas moving back a few paces and Dean worries for a second about leaving the angel so abruptly, and essentially in the middle of a conversation too, even if Dean had nothing left to say. But when Dean glances up Cas' lips still hold that fond curve, eyes warm with understanding, and it's with a sense of relief that Dean is able to direct his whole attention back to Sam, at least for now.

“Dean?” Sam slurs, eyes blinking open.

“Hey,” Dean smiles down at him. “Yeah, it's me. Want me to prove it?”

Sam blinks harder and takes a breath, waking up properly.

“No,” he mutters sitting up. Dean guides him with a hand on his arm, just in case. “I remember... how long was I out?”

“Maybe ten, twenty minutes,” Dean tells him.

When Sam turns to him he has his puppy dogs out in full force and Dean's never been happier to see them.

“Sorry... about...” Sam waves a hand at Dean's neck and a touch there tells Dean the scratch Sam gave him has scabbed over nicely.

“You weren't yourself.”

Dean shrugs, like the whole thing was no big deal and not had him on the verge of losing his mind less than ten minutes ago. Typical big brother tactics, making himself the strong one of the two of them. It's a habit he'll probably never shake.

“How you feeling now?”

Sam holds out an arm.

“Help me up.”

Dean grips the offered limb immediately, pushing to his feet and tugging Sam along with him. Sam's barely upright before he's swinging his fist round, clocking Dean squarely on the jaw.

As he staggers back Dean sees Cas dart forward then stop, still holding himself to one side but glancing back and forth between the two of them, shoulders tense. Dean thinks he knows what this is about though and waves Cas off, rubbing his jaw with his other hand as he glares at his brother.

Sam bitchfaces back.

“What?” he challenges. “You think you're the only one who can do that when one of us fucks off to do something _stupid?_ “

“Okay,” Dean nods, lowering his arm. “You're mad, I get it.”

“ _Mad?_ Mad doesn't even cover it, Dean!” Sam yells back and, hey, at least he's looking healthier now. “You left, without a _word_ —”

“ _Okay_. But -” Dean tries, holding a hand up in surrender, eyes shifting left to where Cas is still standing, awkwardly silent. If he can just get Sam to notice—

“No, Dean, it's not okay!” Sam insists, clearly on a roll. “You think I don't know what you were doing? You went after him, didn't you? After everything we said, you went after Roman. I mean, what were you gonna do? Run in, chop his head off and run out? Did you even _have_ a plan?”

“No, you're right, I was an idiot,” Dean answers, trying to pacify. “But look, it's a good job I was, because—”

But his not-so-subtle point over Sam's shoulder goes unnoticed.

“And what about me, huh? Did you even think about me at all?” Sam continues. “I've been going crazy worrying about you, and I mean that. It...” Faltering for the first time Sam breaks eye contact and looks down, rubbing a hand across his face. “It's bad right now, Dean. I... you saw what happened outside.”

He glances up, then moves past Dean, leaning a hand on the same chair Dean had been using for support moments earlier.

“I thought you had it under control,” Dean says, momentarily distracted from explaining about Cas. The angel's doing okay after all, but if Sam's really sick that's got to take priority.

“So did I,” Sam mutters, twisting the chair round and sitting down on it. His eyes seem to lose focus for a moment as he looks up, darting round various points in the room before fixing on Dean. “But, I don't know... since Bobby died...” A pause. “Things have been getting... harder to ignore.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Dean sighs, because he thought they were over that shit.

“I was going to!” Sam answers. “But you weren't there!”

Oh.

Dean bites his lip, suitably contrite.

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, you should be.”

Before things can stretch into awkward territory, Cas slips up to Dean's side and Dean grins, there'll be no missing the guy now.

“Alright, so stupidity aside, the plan wasn't a total washout,” Dean announces, nodding in Cas' direction and quirking an eyebrow at his brother, waiting for Sam's reaction. He feels Cas tense beside him and Dean's gets that, but now Sam's here he can't think how his brother will feel anything but overjoyed to have Cas back in their lives again.

Except—

Sam's not looking at Cas.

He's just staring at Dean blankly.

“Oh yeah?” Sam says, a prompt for more. “What, you found out something new about Roman Enterprises or something?”

“What?” Dean frowns at his brother. “No, I—”

“Well, whatever it is,” Sam shrugs, getting up and walking, seemingly oblivious, between Dean and Cas to the door. “You can tell me once we're out of here. I don't think we're safe.”

Dean shares a bemused look with Cas as they turn round.

“Sam, what are you -?” Dean tries, but Sam waves a hand over the bed, his other already on the doorknob.

“Seriously, Dean. Get your stuff, let's go,” he says.

There's no way he doesn't see Cas now, the angel's right at Dean's side and Sam's looking directly at them. But there's nothing on Sam's face to indicate he's aware of a third person in the room at all, not even a flicker.

A horrible, gut-wrenching sensation fills Dean, his stomach dropping until he feels hollow and wrung out.

No.

No it couldn't be.

But all this time, it's just been the two of them. And Dean's having trouble recalling if Cas has actually interacted, like physically spoken to or _been seen by_ , anyone else since they started this roadtrip.

He tries again to point out the freaking _angel_ beside him, but something's choking back the words.

“Dean, please,” Sam presses. “I don't remember parts of the journey down here. I don't know if I took the right precautions, or what. I told you it was getting worse for me, right?”

“Yeah, um...” Dean manages.

“Well when I say worse, I mean it's not just Lucifer I'm seeing anymore,” Sam explains. “There are other angels sometimes. Leviathans. I see them following me, and I tell myself they're not real but, I can't be sure, you know? Damn it, even right now. I could swear that _Cas_ is standing just next to you, man.”

Relief shocks through him so fast Dean has to lean forward and breathe through it.

“Oh, thank god,” he gasps, one hand reaching up to grip Cas tight just below the elbow. Using the hold to pull himself up again he shakes his head at the angel, a halfway to hysterical laugh bubbling past his lips. “Jesus, I was getting serious Haley Jole vibes for a second there, dude.”

Cas' eyebrows pinch together, head tilting in typical 'I don't understand that reference' fashion and Dean has a desperate urge to hug him just to make sure he's all really there.

No time now, though, with Sam jolting back against the door like he's been shot.

“What?” he mutters, voice trembling, eyes moving back and forth between Dean and Cas now and wow, Dean has to hand it to the kid, he's really learnt how to block stuff out if he's been seeing Cas this whole time and not once given any sign. “I don't—”

“Take it easy,” Dean tells him, reaching a hand out in a calming gesture. Of course, trying to calm Sam if he's really riled is kind of like trying to calm a wild moose, but hopefully it won't come to that. “You're not... having an episode, or whatever. I'm really me, okay? And this—” He grips Cas harder, using his free hand to point in his direction. “- this is _really Cas_.”

Breathing hard and fast Sam grips one of his hands tight in the other, rubbing his thumb over and over the palm. Dean recognises the trick. That's the hand that got cut back in the lab, the one he'd sewn up for the kid and later used the pain from to shock his brother out of that vivid hallucination he'd been having in that warehouse. The wound's all healed up now but Dean figures Sam's been pressing there out of habit, that it's become his go-to way of clearing the fog between truth and fiction.

Well, let him use it now and see how they're still here then.

After a moment's wait, Dean and Cas watch as Sam pulls his hands apart and reaches a tentative one to Castiel's shoulder. A shaky breath stutters out of him when he finds Cas solid, but Dean knows that won't be enough, not with the crazy vivid stuff Sam's seeing, so he bumps Cas with his shoulder. When Cas raises a questioning eyebrow at him Dean lets go of the guy and steps back, nodding in Sam's direction.

“Say something,” he prompts.

Cas sucks in his lips for a moment, an anxiety reminisce of his introduction to Chastity showing in his eyes. But then he turns back and sets his shoulders.

“Hello, Sam,” he says quietly.

“Oh my god, it's really you,” Sam mutters.

“It's... it's really me, yes,” Cas responds. There's a pause, then he continues in a rush, like he's scared if he doesn't say this now he never will. “Sam, what's happened to you, I need you to know that I'm so very—”

The rest of the apology's rendered moot as Cas finds himself engulfed by Sam's bear-like arms, the angel's words muffled against Sam's shoulder as gigantic hands splay over his back and hold him tight.

Positioned beside them, Dean can see both their faces clearly - Sam with his eyes screwed up and lips pressed tight together, like the wonder he's feeling is almost too painful for him, and Castiel, whose eyes pop wide with surprise at first, then start to blink hard and fast against the burn of relief and childlike gratitude inside them.

It's such a simple, perfect moment Dean can't help himself opening up to it and doesn't fight the wide, unguarded smile stretching from his lips to what feels like every part of him. The warmth spreads right to the tips of his fingers and toes, making him feel like he's swallowed the sun, like all the stars just aligned right here in this crappy, rundown hotel bringing everything that's right in the world together in this one space.

By the time Sam draws away, eyes wet, hands still catching on Cas' shoulders like he's not willing to give the angel up quite yet, Dean's aware he's grinning like a maniac and doesn't know how to stop.

“I don't -” Sam tries, voice catching. “How?”

His head turns to encompass both Cas and Dean in the question and, ah, yeah, that'll do it.

Dean coughs and sobers up, face sinking back to a more solemn expression. Although the warmth still lingers.

“Those bastards had him in the fucking basement,” he answers, keeping a watchful eye on Cas as he does. But while the angel's shoulders bunch up a little at the reminder his expression stays composed. Living with that kind of trauma's no cakewalk, Dean knows, but Cas is dealing.

“What?” Sam exclaims, head snapping back to Cas. “Why?”

“From what I understood,” Cas tells him, and while his gaze is even, his voice calm, the words are quiet. If they weren't standing so close they might have to strain to hear and Dean knows that softness, he realises. The same kind Cas uses after every nightmare. The same tone he used to talk about the civil war and regrettable things. This is how Cas sounds when he's masking deep pain and Dean takes a moment to acknowledge that, storing the knowledge away so he never forgets, because he plans to be fully attuned to Cas' pain from now on. “Recreation,” the angel finishes and Sam jaw snaps shut, the soft skin beneath flexing as he swallows, eyes flashing with a deeper sympathy and understanding than Dean was expecting.

But of course - Sam has more experience of 'recreational torture' than Dean does, years and years of it. When it comes to Hell and the black-red, sulphurous fire of it, it's easy to forget sometimes that while the basics are the same every inmate over, the details of Sam's are drastically different to the focused, manipulative pain Alistair put Dean through.

“Shit, man,” Sam mutters, one hand gripping just shy of Cas' shoulder and squeezing. “That's - I'm -”

But as though following some rule of tit-for-tat Cas denies Sam his apology also, pressing a hand to the one on his arm to silence the guy.

“It's over now,” Cas says. “And I am... very glad to see you, Sam.”

Sam's nod in response has an air of temporality about it, although Cas probably doesn't see it. Dean's suffered enough of the gestures in his time to see what Sam's doing though, the inherent 'I'll let it slide... for now' in his posture and suddenly his errant thought a while back about having Sam coax Cas into emoting seems a real possibility. For a split second Dean's jealous, because actually he'd be happy to talk Cas through his issues now. But then he shakes that off and sees this for the blessing it is. Because isn't it better for Cas this way, having not one but two of them there for support?

And just like that the shit-eating grin is back, lighting him up bright enough for his brother to notice.

“What are you smirking at,” he quips.

Dean shrugs, grinning wider.

“Nothing. Just. Look at us.” He takes a step forward, making a rough, equally sided triangle out of the three of them. “Team Free Will, back in business.”

Sam narrows his eyes for a moment, distrustful of his brother's optimism and Dean doesn't blame him, he's hardly been Mr. Cheerful these last months. But the beginnings of the change Dean's been feeling about that must show on his face because after a moment Sam chuckles.

Cas too is picking up on the happy vibe, gazing between them with an almost beatific look of contentment.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Sam mutters before poking Dean hard in the side. “Don't think this makes it okay, what you did, jerk.”

Dean inclines his head.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees, voice turning sombre for a moment. “No more suicide runs.” His gaze falls hard over both the others. “None of us.”

The pause and nod back is nigh on simultaneous.

“Okay, so...” Sam starts. “What now?”

Dean's never really thought of himself as the leader in this meagre band of brothers, even if he acts like it sometimes, but he finds both Sam and Cas looking to him for an answer here. But it's not so much because he's in charge, he realises, it's because Cas and his brother are equally invested in his opinion. He's _important_. Not as the head, but as the final cog in the machine. And that's the key factor here. Individually they've _all_ been colossal screw ups, and there's no way any one of them could take down Roman and his posse.

But _together_ -

“Now?” Dean repeats. “Now we go save the world. Again.”

\---

It's not until they're all done packing up that Sam notices. His eyes travel once more over the hotel room to make sure they've left nothing behind and Dean sees his gaze pause, frown lines cluttering his brow.

“Hey. If you guys have been travelling together all this time... why's there only one bed in here?”

It's an innocent enough question. As they were getting their stuff together Dean and Cas had offered piecemeal explanations of their adventures since escaping Roman Enterprises, telling about Cas' uncertain situation, his low-power healing and current compliance to human needs. Dean had left out Cas' recent capacity for kissing, of course, and other kinds of... physical desires. A decision Cas seemed to have accepted without question, following Dean's lead in not mentioning any of their extra curriculars. But Sam knew Cas was eating and sleeping now, at least, so it's not surprising he'd question the single bed.

Now, Dean and Sam have shared before, plenty of times, when money was tight or there was nothing but a single or a king-size available. But Dean knows that given half a minute it will dawn on his brother none of those conditions apply in this case and when that happens the question will jump abruptly from a passing thought to an actual something Sam wants an answer to.

Over by the doorway, bag in hand, Castiel watches Dean curiously and Dean knows he's got more than his brother's reaction riding on his answer. Cas will take his response as an indicator of how to proceed with... whatever it is they have between them. All of which will require him somehow _defining_ whatever it is between him and Cas, and risk him calling it wrong, and then feeling obligated to live up to that fake relationship, like he had with Lisa and -

“Dean?” Sam prompts, and Dean can already hear his brother's interest building, the realisation that there might be something to care and share about here thick and cloying in the way he shapes Dean's name.

Well, screw it.

“Looks like we're all done, let's hit the road,” Dean says, ignoring the question completely and heading out the door past Cas and down the stairs without looking back.

When in doubt, deny and deflect. Deny and deflect.

Should buy him some time at least.

_Fin._


End file.
